


The Case of the Jungian Shadows

by consultingdetectivesherlockh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angelic Hierarchy and Dynamics, Cell Phones, Gore, Kid!Mycroft (brief), Kid!Sherlock (brief), M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychic Abilities, Psychological Torture, Shadows - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Wingfic, and assault rifles, angel!John, playing cards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetectivesherlockh/pseuds/consultingdetectivesherlockh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, an ex-soldier and angel, attempts to adjust to his new life. After many attempts to connect to his new life, he finds himself tumbling head first after an eccentric, self-proclaimed consulting detective. The case they're after is more than Sherlock Holmes can ask for; four unexplained suicides, splatters of blood on the walls, curious scratchings on the floorboards! However, what they stumble upon might be more than they can handle..</p><p>For those of you who have read this story before, please go back to the beginning. It got a major makeover over night. I think you'll like this much better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: There will be another language in this fic (only one, Enochian). I am not well-versed in this language (and I doubt many people are) However, I do have a dictionary of all the known Enochian words. I will use some, or through in a few phrases periodically. When I do, I'll make a small key in the End Notes.  
> For some cases, I'll be using ProEnoc (which is a combination of English with Enochian vocabulary), and I will get the phrases from sinleb.com. I've cross-referenced a few words, and so far they are not the same (probably because it's not a complete language), so the language will be a little messy, but I promise to include translations whenever I use it. If you get confused, just send me a comment or a message.
> 
> The title comes from Jung's shadow aspects!

The collision of a thousand suns and stars cascaded around my eyes and vibrated throughout my ear canals. It shook the root of my spinal cord, shimmied down to my toes and bounced up to my fingertips. The sound, oh God, it was nearly unbearable. A steady but deafening roar, the echoing rips and snarls of metallic gears. Guns? No. I wished they were those simple barrelled weapons the people of the ground favoured. Were the wars of men fought so quickly because of them, or because of their will to compromise? I didn’t know.

I knew the war wouldn’t end. Not now, if the stinging rushes of acidic scents were any indication. A fight of wills, a true, bloody battle of soul could not end without genocide. Genocide, an impossibility as both sides knew it, would never be an option. Therefore, we would fight ceaselessly. Guns, I lamented, would be much kinder. Bloodshed would be kind if the ways of war were fought with such simple weapons.

Colourful bursts of electricity filled the air. Though I had never smelled it before, I knew what it was. The smell of death, burning flesh, and iron. So much iron. The air was saturated in it, oxygen molecules swimming in iron and blood and flaming hair. My lungs drew in a corrupted breath. Wrong, the sensation was. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. It was entirely wrong.

Another breath, _brain matter_ , and I could not contain the bile in my stomach. The yellowish-green splat of goo hit the ground. Grey, mushy, wet cranial matter dripped down my cheek. As a man of medicine, I knew there was nothing worse. No perfume in the whole of creation _reeked_ as brain matter did. Even the death of a soul was not without scent. I wondered which of my brethren painted my face.

Azure, flame, honey, and peridot diamonds of eyes flickered in the navy skyline. They sought not unlawful retribution, but justice for the crimes of chaos. Chaos, the purest form of disarray, wasn’t tolerated. The blood of the innocent had been spilled too often. My soldiers and I needed to fight.

The Others, as I called them, battled with high quality _donasdogama tastos_. The fires of Hell were not wasted on this night. It burned a sun in the sky and a volcano when dropped onto the earth. The Others fought for their freedoms, for the passions of lust and greed and pride. For passions of sin and strife and gluttony.

An Other fought to be free; a _murifri_ fought for justice. Both were justified by the truths of God’s creations. Both were logical. Morality, though imperative in man’s life, mattered not in this. The nameless war was of truth, of willpower and defiance.

The Battle of _Vooan_ , I would call it.

As the combat continued, I flew on. I _felt_ myself splinter, the frail, brittle-boned form I was bound to in this realm shattering as I _pushed_ its mortal boundaries. My muscles nearly atrophied, the framework of my body creaked with exertion. I was not made for this war, not here. My _vpaah_ stretched out and arched in six ways. They were, as I was in that moment, incorporeal. The sake of a thousand sanities balanced on the trickery we soldiers exploited. Even my _vpaah_ , which had retained their strength in every circumstance, ached in ways I could never understand.

My brothers and sisters were equally exhausted. Though I couldn’t see it, I could feel the fatigue crinkling the air into miniscule honed-daggers whose tips sought out the blood of a soldier. It was much too dangerous for flight, but that never stopped the garrison.

My eyes ( _the mortal's_ , not my own) drew towards the willowy figures. They danced in my peripheral vision, playing a deadly ballet to the chorus of shouting spirits; caws, echoes of male and female yelps, huffs of tired breath provided an orchestral hum in the background. Dozens of people flew across the metaphorical battlefield, though not all could stand on it. No longer were they strong enough to participate. A murder of the warriors fell to the ground. Their souls billowed as the spiral of dust and wings tunnelled through the air. I could name the fallen as they collided with the ground.

God, no.

_Ansel._

Thud. The dust cleared, though the misshapen corpse could no longer be identified. I cringed; the blood seeped into a patch of marigolds. Though he was not the first to fall, he was the first of the young crusaders. As the holder of such a title, he was given the honour few saw. Another chance in another life, if there were any for _their_ sort.

Once the ground grew cold and aureate, but now it was clean, coming and going as the morning dew. Delicate red drops, bloody dew, if one sought to name it, coated the marigolds near his body. A man’s eye couldn’t see, but the flower drew its breath from that and grew just a tiff. Ansel’s life rejuvenated the wilting blossoms. I blinked, and then bit my tongue to conceal my smirk. Irony did not escape my eyes.

_Sapphire._

_Jonah._

Thud thud.

My eyes closed, the grim yet jovial attitude disappearing in a wisp of cooled wind. The dull thwack of bodies collapsing did not cease, nor did the screeching trills of holy warfare.

_Misha._

Thud. Feathers not unlike a ravens snapped.

_Elizabeth._

Thud. The down of a snowy owl cradled her broken body. I could not look, my eyes still closed, but I _saw_. My contingent, my battalion, my family, died by the hundreds, but I _could not_ look away. No - _crunch_ \- I could not - _smack_ \- look away.

The harrowing puff of air beneath me faded as my flight slowed to a steady halt. Crash. The thumping didn’t cease.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

I jolted up, eyes snapping wide at the clammy (but not coppery, not dusty, thank _God_ ) atmosphere surrounding me. If there was a thing in the world that I was grateful for, it would be the astonishingly small bedroom I now found myself in. The window was askew, allowing a gentle breeze to circulate throughout the room. I fell back into the gentle clutches of my bed.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. My vision blurred, a stream of salty drops of water traced the lines of my cheeks. The thudthudthud of dying _murifri_ didn’t stop; the illusion overlapped the sound of my heart beating. I let a sob claw its way out of my throat. Another followed soon after. Thud thud thud. I whimpered and ran a hand over my face to catch the stray tears.

Harry would’ve slapped me. As one of the closest sisters I had, she took it upon herself to care for me and toughen me up. The pathetic shape curled up on the mattress, myself, would’ve been dragged, kicking and screaming, out to the sitting room. After which, I would've gotten a stern talking to and at least one punch on the shoulder. That is, I would’ve if Harry was here.

She was not.

The fabric of my trousers rubbed against my bed sheets. I shifted, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed and cradling my head in my hands. Both my crying and the clammy-cold sweat of a nightmare had dampened them. I vaguely recalled the concept designed to describe this situation: posttraumatic stress disorder. What that did to help, I didn’t know.

After a few moments of indulging my shock-fuelled tears, I sucked in a deep breath to steady myself. A soldier did not dwell on the past. I nodded to myself. I was strong, careful, and in control.

My knees wobbled as I stood, limped to the closet and pulled out two articles of clothing as I threw my brown-striped robe on. The jumper, olive and woolly, and navy jeans I discarded onto my bed. I sat next to them, running a hand over my face again to remove the crusty rheum from my eyes.

The desk at the opposite wall drew my eye. It was made of mahogany and adorned with the few objects I owned; my laptop, a few notes from my studies as a medical professional (the cover I both loved and needed little training to uphold correctly), journals of my adventures as a murifri, and my cane. A frustrated groan fell from my lips. I knew that, without it, I couldn’t get around as simply as I wanted to. It was too much effort to struggle with my limp. Five steps were all it took to retrieve the cane. It took twenty-seven steps to get to the kitchen and brew my morning tea.

Three cuppas and four hours later, I returned to my room, an apple and fourth cuppa in hand. With the fear of the night gone with the moon that was replaced by the sun, I felt much more comfortable in the stuffy area. I took hesitant steps toward the wooden desk to retrieve my laptop. As I hobbled, knuckles white as I clung to the cane, the mug, painted with the Royal Arm Medical Corps sigma, and its honey-coloured contents sloshed around. I slid the cuppa, along with my semi-bruised apple, on the desk.

The ‘forbidden’ drawer, as I often joked to myself, contained the computer as well as my unregistered Browning. Though the weapon wasn’t the only unregistered item in the flat (I was technically unregistered, my passports, paperwork, and credentials all foraged for the sake of creating an identity for my new life), it was the most easily discovered and most likely to send me to prison if its secret was uncovered. My identity was not simply because prison would be the _kindest_ punishment I could face, and kindness wasn’t common in my life.

“Well then,” I muttered to myself, lifting the lid as if it was made of paper. The screen, dimmed down as not to blind me, booted up without a password prompt. Instead, it bore the home page of my blog. “The personal blog of Dr John H. Watson,” it proudly cooed. I smirked. The pride would be warranted if not for the fact that no posts had been created.

Ella’d be mad with me if she saw.

It wasn’t as if I _wanted_ to ignore my assigned therapist; I simply had nothing of value to post. The blog was, in essence, a diary that I didn’t have permission to use. The war, my adventures, hell, my _species_ , and all accounts of it were explicitly banned from public display. Anything posted on the internet would be seen.  Furthermore, I bore no desire to write about my encounters. Memories tinged with pain? No, I didn’t want to speak of it.

I closed the laptop and placed it in the drawer again, covering the gun. If I didn’t cover it, I knew I’d take it out and test its deadly skills. Guns and bullets were strangers in my eyes, strangers that I fancied myself puzzled by.  Sometimes, when Ella was particularly fussy, I pictured testing the gun on her favourite armchair.

“John?”

I blinked, finding myself in that damned armchair: faux-leather, brown and completely uncomfortable. I shifted on the smooth piece of furniture. Ella, who was clearly annoyed by the fact that I wasn’t even paying attention to her while she was talking, frowned at me. The amount of time she spent with her lips moving could have been a few moments or ten minutes; I didn’t know. We held a brief stare-down before Ella spoke again.

“Well?” she prompted, folding her arms and holding onto her notebook tightly. The pen in her hand tapped rhythmically. “How is it?”

“How is what?” I wondered. My brows creased in confusion and slight irritation. Frustration, or rather annoyance, tinged my voice with somewhat of a sharp aftertaste.

“Your blog, John. How is your blog going?” Ella clarified. Oh. Of course. The blog. I rearranged my features to appear bored, but honest.

“Yeah, good,” I muttered. “Very good.”

Ella blinked, and then smiled. “You haven’t even started writing, have you?” she asked in a teasing tone. Clearly, angels weren’t created to lie. I needed to work on that next time the chance aroused. Perhaps I would call Harry up and test it on her. In the meantime, I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, searching for a response.

“Maybe not,” I shrugged. My eyes wandered to the notepad on which her pencil scribbled. I watched the letters come to existence. Truly, it would take more effort to not decode the sprawled out words than it would to read them. “Did you really just write ‘Still has trust issues’?”

“You read my writing upside down,” Ella offered as an example. As a rule, Ella didn’t know how to explain my behaviours. She attempted to categorise me into a small, human box in which I didn’t fit. Nonetheless, I had to admit, she had me there.  Her observation was merited. “Do you see what I mean?”

An awkward smile cracked across my lips. Of course I did.

“John, you’re a soldier. It’s going to take you a little while to get used to civilian life. Writing a blog about your experiences will help you,” Ella stated firmly. Her pen tapped against the notebook paper as she waited for a response. I failed to conjure up a proper excuse. Again, the thudthudthud accented the beating of my heart. I thought of my brothers and sisters for the second time that day.

“Nothing happens to me,” I recited somewhat poorly, my smile becoming sad as well as my tone. My eyes closed of their own accord. I wondered if skipping therapy would be as terrible as I thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the "murder of warriors" is kind of a lost phrase on you, I'm sorry!  
> A murder is another name for a group of ravens and I wanted to through in a silly bird pun.  
> Also, the irony of the marigolds is related to floriography (it's October's birth flower meaning winning grace; protection; comfort; healing. Marigolds are also used in English culture as symbols of sadness and sympathy so...)
> 
> Enochian-  
> Vpaah - vuh PAH uh - Wings  
> donasdogama tastos - don AS dog ah MA TAST os - Hell-fire  
> Murifri -mu RI fuh RI – Angel


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decently sized chapter! It's actually a few smashed together, but i think it fits fine?

I woke, had breakfast, searched for a job, counted up the frankly poor amount of money I received from my pension (thank Heavens for the income those above set up for me), and slept. The cycle repeated itself.

Nightmares. Dying soldiers. Screaming. Shower. Tea, maybe an apple or toast. Therapy. Bills, bills. Walk. Blog. Another apple or perhaps a meal. Study various languages, pop culture, etc. Rinse. Repeat.

As I nibbled the edges of my strawberry jam smeared toast, the news anchors on the telly provided descriptions of recent events. Most of the time, the broadcast held no interest.  I watched the figures on the screen move about. A blonde woman dressed up in an alarming shade of pink flashed on the screen. Her words caught my attention more than her attire.

“Last month, the body of Sir Jeffrey E Drebber was found in his office. The cause of death appeared to be suicide. Mrs Margaret Drebber, Sir Jeffrey’s wife, made a statement at the press conference held on the twelfth of October,” the woman said. I watched the programme with little on my mind. The original report aired a little more than a month beforehand. I remembered it a bit, though I couldn’t recall many details. The mousy red-headed wife stuck out in my mind, but other than that, nothing. Suddenly, her tear-stained face appeared on the screen.

“My husband was a happy man,” Mrs Drebber sobbed, sucking in a breath before she went on. I stood up and went to the kitchen to start the kettle for my second cuppa that morning. “Who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work.”

Looking back to the telly as the water boiled, I caught the image of her face crumpling under the weight of the tears. The pink woman cut off the rest of her interview.

“Recent developments suggest that his death could have been the result of foul play. The body of an eighteen-year-old Jimmy Rance was found with the same drug in his system,” her voice wavered as she looked away for a brief moment. I suspected she was reading from a teleprompter. Most news reporters did so. Why bother memorising something that changes as the day does? Her eyes drifted back to the centre of the screen.  “The Scotland Yard has assured us that they are looking into every possible cause.”

After she finished her sentence, I returned my attention to the preparation of my tea. I put a few tea bags in the water and waited for the water to brown. Soon enough, the tea finished brewing. After adding milk, I went back to the sitting room. As I got in, the programme ended with a few parting words from the lady in pink.

“That’s all for this hour. Tune in again at noon for more news,” she said, her name, Jennifer Wilson, finally appearing on screen.  The tea washed down the rest of my toast. After I finished my breakfast, I returned to my daily routine. Times such as those made me wish I still had my vpaah or my position as an angel. Any of the two would’ve been more exciting.

I hobbled down the sidewalk with my cane in tow. The walk down the street was designed to provide me with something to do while being bored.  Making my way to Regent’s Park, however, I found myself stopped by a hand precariously placed on my shoulder.

“John!” a familiar voice greeted cheerily. I glanced over my shoulder, having already placed name to the stranger.  The image of a stout, short-haired fellow graced my eyes. A grin tugged at the corner of my lips.

Mike, however, had changed since I last saw him. His hair, which was once cut as short as my own, stuck up in feathery tuffs. The wolfy grin that shined on his features, exposing his curiously bright, milky teeth, brought an aura of youth to him. The childish wonder in his eyes only increased the impression. A thin, wired frame bugged his eyes. His clothes were nondescript, a pair of jeans and a blue tee. No matter the changes in his appearance or myself, I would never forget one of my brothers.

“Mike,” I murmured as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and gave the man a tight hug.  He laughed.

“How are you doing?” he asked pleasantly. I peeled my arms off of his figure.

“Fine.”

“’Fine’ fine, or ‘I’m-not-in-the-mood-for-this’ fine?” I could help but laugh at that. Generally, Mike knew how to read people. He could when tell one of our inferiors was having difficulties with their positions or tasks.

“A little of both, actually. It’s hard to adjust, you know?”

Mike’s expression became serious as he nodded. “Yeah, I know. Dropping a war isn’t the easiest thing to do. I’m making little battles for myself to help out. What’re you doing?”

“I’ve been assigned a therapist.”

“A human therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a kick,” Mike snorted. He looked around the street before leaning in close to whisper to me. “Listen, if you need something to do, anything to stretch out your wings, we can do that, yeah? I’ll take you out for a run.” His smile returned.

“I can’t. I was banned actually. They made sure of it,” I whispered into his ear. The strain on my back in place of what should’ve been my wings. Mike shifted uncomfortably, looking at my back as if he could read the thoughts on my face.

“Bugger. Is there anything I can do to help? We could try bowling.”

“Bowling!” I huffed.

He smiled. “Or shooting. I’m up for anything. It’s hard to find family down here, and we need each other.”

I completely agreed. Without a wink of information from any of our garrison, I felt like a wandering pup. At least five of us, including Mike and I, were living in this area, but I couldn’t find anyone. “I have a gun. It’s part of what they set me up to be. I’m a soldier and a doctor down here.”

“They really picked the perfect job for you, didn’t they?” Mike smirked. He patted my shoulder playfully. “Let’s fire up your gun. I don’t think you’ve ever shot a thing in your life. When are you free?”

“Almost every day. I look for jobs in the morning, but I get home at relatively noon,” I recited. He seemed to brighten up at my answer.

“Great. Let’s go at one tomorrow.”

I nodded and turned to the direction of my flat, waving over my shoulder. “See you.”

My new daily schedule was semi-blissful. After stabilizing the flow in three or so weeks, I found it was more of a habit. In place of my previous routine, I found a new beat to follow. Wake up, eat breakfast, go shooting with Mike (I’ve given up at finding a job), grab a pint at the pub, then return to the flat. Occasionally, Mike would accompany me home.  On those nights, we drank honey and tea and talked about our service memories.

“Remember when Harry came to the first roll call, dizzy off her arse from all the people?” I laughed once, picture her expression when the room practically vibrated with contained emotions. Harry, whose frizzy, tossed-about hair stuck up around her head like a mop of Golden Fleece, wore a wide-eyed, mouth open mask. Having been an angel of atmosphere, she knew and sensed everything around her at the time.

Mike snorted. “’Course I do. She went on and on about the bloke in the back who died from guilt of eating an extra blueberry tart at camp. ‘He didn’t mean it!’”

The angel in question, Brendall of the Thirty Fifth Leopold Battalion, was a skittish young male. He slept in his own bunk, ate at his own table, and laundered his clothes separately. As an angel with such levels of anxiety, he often had problems with communicating when he had to. He was terrified of others, germs, and loud noises. Despite his quirks, he was well liked. The boy treated everyone equally and with all of the respect he could muster.

As the days of boot camp first started, we found out that not all of our rations of food came in. We put a few lenient policies in place. One was to eat three meals and one pastry a day. After a week, we had more than enough food in our rations. Our precaution was unneeded. However, Brendall had no clue. He thought that he was in trouble.

Quite honestly, no one understood why he was afraid. We didn’t need the food; eating enforced the habit we would need when we came to earth. If we came to earth. If we did run out of pastries, Brendall wouldn’t be reprimanded.

“Ha! Wasn’t that rich? Brendall was always a little sensitive. I think it took us, what, ten minutes to convince him we had enough blueberry tarts to last us a lifetime?”

“Something like that. It wasn’t as bad as what happened with Cheryl.”

“Oh _God_ ,” I giggled. Cheryl, the poor, sweet grunt, blew up an entire subsection when she was practicing her form. Angels as beings of spirit had to use our souls to fight. It took an awful lot of training to harness the power. If a capable person didn’t wield it, it could let out a burst of bright energy. Cheryl’s energy was olive green and burned with a strong, earthy scent. The sheer strength of her soul split the building into pieces. It took ages to clean up the flaming shed.

“This all seems ridiculous. We’re laughing about explosions and pastries!”

I nodded and swallowed some of my tea to quiet my chuckles.

When I finally found a rhythm to follow, I was elated. Mike came by once a week and I learned why humans loved weaponry.  A rush of adrenaline filled my veins every time the bullet from my gun collided with my target. Mike told me I was a natural.

“Nice shot, Captain!” he shouted over the dull cotton-stuffed silence the protective earmuffs provided. He offered me a thumbs up, which I immediately returned.

Mike was never really all the good with shooting. Every once in a while, he would nail the target. We would cheer for the momentary victory, but soon fall into laughter with the following failure.

“Bugger,” Mike grumbled again and again. The target stood quite a ways away, as Mike always wanted it. He secretly loved to see me hit something that would normally be difficult with ease. I became a crack shot in an abnormally short period of time.

Thus, we visited the shooting range every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. He worked Monday through Friday, yet nearly always found the time to accompany me. It was more than I expected from him. I visited nearly every day as well, but he didn’t know that.

On the occasion that I went alone, I met a few humans and indulged on a bit of new social interaction. I would call it refreshing, if not relaxing. People, to their cores, were fundamentally kind. I met an array of people; a greying Greg, a master Sebastian, and a teenage Bill with his father Henry. They usually watched me shoot instead of joining me, though. It felt nice to show off.

I went home one night every week, my Sig, glasses, and earmuffs tucked away, to find Mike waiting at the door of my flat. He smirked and waved down a cab while I threw my things in my room.

On this particular night, while Mike and I approached our usual seats at the bar, we spotted Harriet manoeuvring through the crowd with a beer in hand. She reeked of stale alcohol and greasy chips. Mike waved her over, his teeth wide across his face.

“Johnny!” She exclaimed, the clumsy grin on her face resembling the shaky motions of her toes. She stumbled forward and collapsed in my arms. Her tight hold nearly suffocated me. I wriggled away and glared at the taller woman. The scent, the terrible feeling of illness and cirrhosis, slung onto her skin like a waxy coating.

“Harry, get off. I need to breathe,” I muttered, amusement and annoyance mingling in my tone. Her behaviour was a bit out there, but it didn’t seem like she changed much beyond that. Confusion layered on top of the rest of my emotions.

“Hey. You’re supposed to be happy. I came here to tell you something extraordinary!” Harry crossed her arms and stared down at me. A wave of bile washed over my face. I cringed. “We’re siblings.”

“Yes, I know that. We always have been,” I said with an eye roll, my nose crinkled in disgust. Why did she reek?  

“No, not like…that. We’re siblings. Watsons. Our cover-ups are brother and sister,” she clarified, leaning in. The frankly appealing scent filled my being. I pushed away and bumped into Mike’s chest. My eyes were locked on the beer in her hand. Slowly, the pieces connected in my head. Oh, Harry.

“Great.” I tried not to show that I figured it out.

“I bought you a present to celebrate.” She squinted and looked over me.

“Harry -”

“I know. You want nothing to do with it. Just take the thing and go on.” She placed a rectangular hunk of silicon in my palm. Thankfully, she didn’t approach me nor did she move any closer. I stared down at it with a curious expression. I saw people wandering around with these attached to their ears. I never wanted one.  Harry misinterpreted my confusion of the present.

“It’s a phone,” Harry informed me. I snorted. I knew what a mobile was. This machinery was new, fully equipped with Bluetooth and a touch screen. A pair of white headphones encircled it. I turned the device over and looked at the back. It was sleek, silver, and decorated with delicate, white words. ‘For Harry, Love Clara,’ it read. I frowned.

“Who’s Clara?” I asked, half expecting her to say she found an angel from another garrison in London. Harry looked astonished by the question

“My wife. I…Well, I’ve been here awhile,” Harry said. Her voice was quiet, afraid of retribution. I only sighed.

“You know we aren’t supposed to-”

“I know.”

“But you-”

“I did.” Harry nodded and took a swig of the brown bottle. Having nothing to say, I turned back to Mike, searching for assistance. His face was blank, studying the amber liquid in his glass

“It just happens, John. I couldn’t stop it,” Harry whispered. Her eyes looked tired and sad. It was an odd look for such a strong person. I wondered what happened between them and why she would give me the phone. “I couldn’t stop the divorce either.”

I sucked in a breath and held it, hugging her curved form to my chest. She wept, and I remained in place. We stayed this way for hours, crying and holding and sometimes drinking, until the bar closed and Mike inevitably led us both to the cab. Harry, who was still out of it, rested on my lap. Mike made a call for all us by giving the cabby my address.

That night, Mike and I went out and bought a bottle of ibuprofen and case of water. We stayed with Harry through the night, cooing her to sleep when she awoke. Our efforts were nullified when we both awoke to the sound of retching. Mike fetched a bottle of water and ibuprofen; I went to the bathroom.

Harry, her head in the toilet bowl, greeted me with a cough. The smell of sick hovered around her. Her hair was scraggly and forehead damp. I stepped forward. My fingers encircled the strands of her hair, pulling it back so the next bit of vomit wouldn’t crust into it. She expelled the contents of her stomach once more before Mike came in.

“How are you, sweetie?” Mike asked quietly. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting an answer. The water bottle passed from his fingers to Harry’s. She gulped it down eagerly. The room was otherwise silent. After a moment or so, Harry looked at the pair of us and let her brow rise.

“I’m fine. It’s a hangover. Why are you so worried?” Harry spat. Her teeth were yellowish, matching her eyes. The stench of cirrhosis permeated throughout the room. I tried not to vomit with her.

“It’s not right, Harry. We aren’t supposed to-" I started as I remembered the exchange from the pub.

“Sod what we’re supposed to do! We can do anything. We can drink, and love, and fight if we want to!” she hissed. “Sod the plan! Sod our jobs, John. Don’t you just want to do something? Isn’t it just a little boring to sit around and wait for orders all day?”

“How did you get like this?” Mike whispered. I was grateful that I wasn’t the moron who asked that question, although I did want an answer.

“Once you’re around humans, you get to be like one,” the new Harry muttered. “They feel so much. It was worth it, John. Every minute. If you could love like that…” The way her voice trailed away caught my attention. Something about it tugged at my heart. If I had to put a name to it, it would be curiosity.

It took three bottles of water and two ibuprofen to convince Harry to stand up, and another of each to get her to walk to the couch. She was still foggy and horribly hungover, but alright all together. I switched on the telly and started the kettle for the three of us. Mike put bread in the toaster, and I got the jam. We worked without words. The tea was finished relatively quickly, but a bit of that may have been because I’d no clue what Harry preferred, so I made it similar to Mike’s cuppa.

Mike spread jam on two pieces of toast, and then went to the cupboard to get honey for his piece. My fingers pushed his cuppa to the right of his plate. The breakfast was pretty good for a quick fix. I brought out Harry’s and my plates and plopped next to her.

“What’s on?” I asked, setting the plate on her lap. Her eyes stayed on the screen as she brought the toast to her lips. Jennifer Wilson lit up the screen with her obnoxious pink suit again. Her painted lips quivered, words pouring out at a tone too low for my ears to hear. On the screen, I saw the image of a middle-aged woman in the upper left-hand corner. She looked like a government official in her formal wear.

“News. Jennifer says there’s been a third suicide. Beth something. Devinson,” Harry replied, bread crumbs falling out of her jam-crusted lips. My attention moved to the figure on the telly.

“Beth Davenport? The Junior Minister for Transport?” I offered. On one of my various walks, I’d noticed a poster up for a party in her favour. It was a shame she passed away. Harry’s blonde curls nodded in response.

“Yeah, her. She said it’s just like the other two, implied that it was the work of a cult!” Harry snorted.

“Mmm.”

“Do you think…perhaps it’s something else?” Her eyes caught mine. A strange glint in them made me hesitate to respond. I carefully constructed a statement.

“’Something else’ meaning Other, or ‘something else’ meaning murder?”

“Other, you twat,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh, then no. It might be a cult. I think it’s just a line of suicides. Some humans can’t cope; some believe it’s the best choice; some just don’t care anymore. Sometimes, humans get bored with life and think about deep throating a gun or downing some pills. It happens, Harry,” I answered honestly. The image of the pistol in my forbidden drawer danced around behind my eyelids.

Harry stared at me. Her eyes were wide, not unlike a deer’s when caught in front of a large semi-truck. A breeze of cool air rustled the hair at the nape of my neck. _Shit_. Reigning in my thoughts, I flashed a fake smile her way. Maybe, just this once, she would ignore her instincts and go on like she didn't know what part of humanity I felt.

"John."

Damn. Not this time. "Harry."

"What the hell was that?" She very well didn't need to ask, and she knew it.

"Nothing."

"It sure as hell wasn't nothing." _Please, don't do this_ , I thought. She had to feel my reluctance. I didn't doubt it one bit; she just ignored it in favour of dissecting me.

"Well it wasn't something, either. Let me have this. You have your drinking; I have my thoughts," I grumbled.

Harry loomed over me in a battle stance. Her feet, which stuck out from her hips, pointed about front. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed into little slits. I pictured lasers shooting from them at high velocity. This was Harry, ready to fight, and ready to win. I knew better than to stand in her way.

"John, don't you dare say that's the same," she raged. If I weren't just as strong, I would have feared her. Red haze floated around her eyes. Her wings were nearly visible in all their glory. I could make out every little bit of feathery, flaming down on her back. I gulped before responding.

"Isn't it? My thoughts _might_ kill me, yeah, but you're _definitely_ killing yourself. I can smell it." The stench of alcohol and death clung to her like a grimy blanket.

"You what?"

"Cirrhosis. It's oozing off of you," I retched. The air around her shivered with blood, _methane_ , and grease. It fed the fire on her back. The image reminded me of the sensational display of hot summer air over a highway.

"Shut up." The aura shrunk in. I could see it in that moment, the way it leeched off of the small part of her soul that held all of her grace. It _hurt_ to watch.

"Let me help."

"Shut. Up."

"Harry-"

" _I said shut up_!" Harry screeched, throwing her plate against the wall. It shattered into a porcelain rain, clashing on the speck of the wall nearest to Mike's head. Everything stopped. I looked to Harry, then Mike, and back. No one dared to breathe. Strikes of fiery lightning, hatred, and fear slashed at each of us. She lashed out at all of us. I felt the slap of invisible leather on my wrists. The skin was raw as if acid burned away the first few layers of skin. Mike looked at me and closed his eyes.

"Harry, you should go," I said solemnly. Harry looked at me, red still in her eyes, then at blood on my skin. She paled.

"I didn't mean it."

"Just go. Come on; I'll help you. Let's just go," Mike whispered. It didn't take an empath to tell that he felt defeated. Harry nodded and turned away. She was cool. The haze was gone, as well as her wings, though the grease still surrounded her figure. Her spine straightened up, a habit from boot camp, and she marched toward the door. Mike exited the flat first; she followed behind him like a military-trained puppy.  He didn't touch her hand, nor did she touch his. I watched the ghosts of legends leave as if it didn't hurt.

Hours passed as I sat on the couch. The tea was sure to be icy. I didn't care. Without a family, I was alone again.

Mike's honey-coated toast sat untouched on the counter.


	3. Chapter 3

After the ordeal with Harry, I was tired. Anger and annoyance festered. Going out seemed less appealing, especially if it meant I could stumble upon her or Mike at any given moment. I avoided going to Regent’s, and then the pub. Eventually, I limited myself to visiting Russell Square Park and Saint Bart’s. On one seemingly uninteresting morning, I went to the park for a walk. I limped across the sidewalk. The sound of footsteps interrupted the scraping of my cane on the cement. I looked over my shoulder to find Mike lumbering behind me, a white lab coat hung over his shoulders. His eyes, framed by his glasses, appeared to be two times larger than they normally were.

“John!” Mike called. “John Watson!”

I paled and offered a shy smile. After the events with Harry, I preferred to keep to myself. It seemed to be for the best. After all, I wouldn’t like to blow up on my sister or my friend.

As Mike grew nearer, I paused. He didn’t appear to be angry; quite the opposite. “John! Hey! What are you doing out here?”

“Ah, just out for a walk,” I replied. My head leaned down in an effort to hide my expression.

Mike smiled shyly and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I assured him, attempting to speed up.

Mike shrugged and went on. “What happened was terrible, but she didn’t mean to do it. It just happened. What I mean to say is she was just reacting. Harry promised not to let it happen again.”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about this right now,” I mumbled stiffly.

Mike nodded awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Care for a coffee?” he asked, gesturing toward a shop over my shoulder. I nodded and followed him in that direction.

The shop was small, but well-staffed. Mike and I entered the building to friendly grins and a welcoming “hello”! Cinnamon and menthe wafted through the air. I sucked in a deep breath and smiled through my exhale. Mike peered at me through the corner of his eyes and grinned. My cheeks heated.

“Nice place, yeah? It’s close enough to the hospital that I can get in on breaks, but far enough to have a nice, long walk,” Mike explained, nudging me with his elbow. “Find us a spot to sit and I’ll get Angie to brew us a cuppa.”

My head bobbed. The café was nearly empty, with only the shadow of a man in the back of the room, so there were a wide variety of choices: the bar, a booth, or maybe a small table. My eyes slid over the man’s table and stopped at the one beside him. I wobbled over and perched in chair opposite to the door. Mike sat across from me after a moment of patience.

“Coffee will be out in a minute,” he said as he slid onto the padded chair. “So how’ve you been, John? I haven’t seen you in, what, weeks?”

“Nearly a month, yeah. I’m fine. Yourself?” I asked nonchalantly. My fingers tightened on my cane.

“Good. Have I told you I got a position teaching at Bart’s?” Mirth lit up his eyes. “The bright, young things, they are.”

“That’s brilliant, yeah. Bright kids are hard to come by.”

“Oh, thank god for that! They’re such a handful. As smart as they are, you’d think that they’dve matured a bit!” He chuckled and shook his head. “Brilliance doesn’t always a good man make.”

I laughed with him. When we quieted down, Angie brought out two plastic containers of coffee and placed them on the table with a handful of sugar and cream. “I suppose not, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting someone to prove that,” I said as I poured a packet of cream in my cup.

“Lucky you,” Mike teased, doing the same. He ripped open two packs of sugar and dissolved them in the brown liquid. “What about you? Have you found a job yet? I know you stopped looking, but I thought, maybe with all the time you had to yourself…”

“No, nothing yet. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave soon. I can’t afford to live in London on my pension,” I sighed, bringing the edge of the coffee to my lips and sipping at the hot beverage. I thought about the foreignness that would likely come with leaving only one two people I really knew on this rotation of my visit on Earth. Mike smiled knowingly at me.

“You can’t afford to live anywhere else, either. The John Watson I know couldn’t bear to leave these streets. You’ve been here longer then I have, and I came in before I took my A-Levels.”

“Well, I’m not that John Watson,” I spat out without thinking. As I turned my head, Mike looked out the window. His eyes were low. If I could see his wings, I’d expect their feathers to be ruffled. A slight tremble shook the foundation of the building. The coffee in my cup rippled. I heard the clangs of plates from the back of the café. Angie looked over the counter in fear.

Before I realised it, a pressure began to build up against my scapular muscles. The pricks of a thousand needles burned on my shoulder blades. I hissed and shut my eyes, clenching my fist as tightly as possible. If they were open, I was inclined to think that I would see a light brighter than a thousand suns. My gears grinded deep within me. Familiar electricity sparked in my veins.

“John?”

The shaking stopped. I heard Angie swoon and collapse onto the soft, carpeted floor behind the counter. The sound of a ceramic dish shattering filled the air. A breeze blew over my shoulder.

“Yeah?” I whispered. I felt the phantom limbs on my back twitch. It was alien to have weight on my scapular muscles. Suddenly, light pressure from a hand held my shoulder down.

“You alright?” Mike asked. I bobbed my head, opening my eyes and looking at him with a soft smile. Though fear and frustration rode on the adrenaline that sang in my veins, a strange sense of giddy power left a metallic aftertaste in my mouth.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine, thanks,” I said in a shuddering breath. The feeling of pressure on my back dissipated as quickly as it appeared. I was a feather in the wind, bumping on the trees and tickling the skin of strangers. What was _that_?

Mike fidgeted with his spoon. It clanked on the wooden table as it teetered over his index and middle fingers. Sunlight glinted off of the silver utensil.

“You could get a flatshare or something if you do want to stay in London,” Mike said after a few moments of silence. He dropped the spoon and pushed his mug away.

“Come on – who’d want _me_ for a flatmate?” I snorted sarcastically. An angel without wings, a means of protection, who flinched at the mere mention of his family or his identity? Hell, as a human, I was horribly estranged. My sleeping schedule varied because of my nightmares. I needed a cane to get around because of my bum leg. My reverie was interrupted by Mike’s chuckling. I snapped back to him and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

I was more than interested at this point. Coincidence was more often than not planned out before hand by another higher power. God couldn’t be bothered with it, but other angels were assigned tasks like that. Even the Fates had a hand in situations like this.

“Who was the first?” I asked mostly to myself. Who was I supposed to meet, and why? Mike laughed and grabbed my elbow, ushering me out. My fist knocked over the cup of coffee as we left.

We walked for nearly ten minutes, a heavy quiet on our shoulders. When we finally arrived at our destination, Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, my lungs gasped unpleasantly. The stench of death and saline filled my nose. The stirrings of a flashback nagged at the corner of my eyes. Immediately, I shut my eyes and took deep breaths.

_1\. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10._

Mike didn’t hesitate to lead me along as I momentarily distracted myself. The smell became bearable, familiar even, after a few minutes of getting used to. As a doctor and an ex-soldier, I’d smelled the thickness of burned flesh and souls and bubbling blood. It was not difficult to return to the same environment so long as the scent wasn’t overpowering.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. The room I found myself in, though new as it was, hit a familiar pang in my chest. The lab was, to put it simply, chilly and silver. Silver tables, microscopes, and utensils for various forms of test. The air kissed my skin and left goosebumps in its wake. A deep baritone crescendoed in such a manner that it all but captivated me.

“Mobile,” it coughed. A lanky, pallid hand stretched toward Mike and me.

“Why?” Mike asked as he stared at the limp appendage as if it was going to snap like a crocodile.

“Need to send a message. Give me your mobile.” The man thrust his hand out even further. I bit back a smirk.

Mike’s hands fumbled for a moment, dipping into pockets and turning up empty. He shrugged and gestured in a way that meant _just bloody do it. I’ll explain later._ I sighed and pulled the mobile Harry gave to me out. The piece of technology meant squat to me; I didn’t mind if the man stole it. I placed it on his cool fingers and turned away to look at Mike. _Who is this?_

Mike smirked and shook his head just as a mousy girl came in. I could see the shine of something on her skin; different, but I couldn’t identify what it was. She appeared to be unassuming, just quiet and shy. Two coffees were in her hands.

“Here you are!” She announced cheerfully, placing one cup next to the curly-haired man. He glanced at her for a moment then turned his attention back to the phone.

“Thank you, Molly,” he muttered. The grown man sounded like a petulant child thanking his mother for a sweet after being scolded for not doing so. I laughed. A glare burned my cheeks, leaving a deep scarlet on my skin. He tossed the phone in my direction, then snaked his hand to the steaming cardboard cup.

“You’ve got lipstick on now,” he tossed over his shoulder. “It emphasizes your lips and makes your normally small mouth appear larger. Why?” Molly fluttered like a hummingbird at his scrutiny.

“I was just freshening up.”

“For a corpse?”

“No, I just thought it would look nice is all.”

“Doubtful. You’ve got a date. The new man from IT?”

“Yeah, how did you-?”

“Your lipstick, Molly. Do keep up. You usually leave your mouth clean and smallish because it’s too much trouble for you to fuss over during the day. Why would you wear something you usually never bother with? Date, obvious. You’ve purchased it recently; this is the first time you’ve worn it out. You want to impress him, first date then. How do I know it’s with the man from IT? He was walking around with new cologne. He over-sprayed it to the point of rendering those around him into a state of gagging. I can smell it on you.”

“Yes, well- I’ll just-” she stammered. A nervous laugh came from her lips. I tried not to be embarrassed for her; it was clear that she was quite smitten. Molly bumped into the table and knocked over a scalpel. “Go. Sorry.”

The man, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected as the poor girl stumbled out. He looked back to his microscope, leaving Mike and me to our vices. I glanced over to him, which earned me a shrug. Mike cleared his throat.

The man looked up expectantly. “Well?” he started.

“Well what?”

“Well do as you came here to. Introduce us.”

Mike smiled and rolled his eyes. He nudged my shoulder. “This is John Watson, an old friend of mine.”

I held out my hand and shifted my weight onto my cane. The man simply sat in his seat and stared at it for a few moments before muttering almost certainly under his breath, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me, and I do loathe repeating myself,” he replied smugly. In a flurry of silver, the mess on the table was cleaned up. The man brushed his hands on his pants and turned back to me. One hand extended in my direction. Burns and small cuts decorated his joints. Even curiouser than his apparent knowledge of me; his appearance shouted cleanliness, yet his hands were contradictory to that observation. I felt a strange fascination with the man in front of me.

Apparently bored with my inner monologue, the man sighed and began to pull his hand back. I reached out and grasped it firmly. I scrambled to pick one of the two options, not seeing the point of the exercise. It surprised me that he knew about a war, regardless. “Afghanistan. How did you know?” I asked, hoping to get him to speak again.

The man shrugged. “Observation, the sort you were so keen to indulge in not a moment ago. How do you feel about the violin?” he asked.

“Why?” My hand froze. What was he getting at?

“I enjoy playing the violin to focus my thoughts. I’m known to be manic at some periods, and restrained on others. I won’t talk for days on end, but you mustn’t worry about me. Leave me be and I’ll bounce back,” he narrated. “Would any of that bother you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good. Potential flatmates should know what they’re getting into before they pair up.”

I turned back to Mike and stared at him. “You told him about me?” I asked, though I couldn’t believe it. I was with him the entire day and would’ve seen if he had, and it wasn’t like Mike to go blabbering on about a brother to a stranger.

Mike looked positively chuffed. He leaned against the silver table and shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“No?”

“Not at all.”

“How did you jump to the conclusion then, Mister…?”

“Holmes. It was as simple as noticing your psychosomatic limp or your service in Afghanistan. Deduction, John,” Holmes said proudly. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion.

“Deduction?” I asked cautiously. Holmes grinned excitedly and clapped his hands together. His eyes light up with giddy elation, more than ready to hop into a breakdown of the topic.

“Deduction, the science of observation and educated hypothesis. I collect data with my senses and processes it in order to form an accurate image of the being in front of me. Specifically, you,” he finished with a cheesy smile. I rolled my eyes.

“How did you know about the flatshare, then?”

“Child’s play. I conversed with Mike this morning about living arrangements, ‘whinging’, in his words, about being a difficult man to find a flatmate for. The fact that he immediately appears at my side with an old friend, who was recently sent home from Afghanistan, on top of that backs up my thesis to the point of irrefutability.”

“Alright, that’s all true, but how on Earth did you know I went to war?” I was curious to see what made him think that. Holmes scoffed and stepped around me. His fingers wrapped around a thick, black Belstaff coat and slid into the sleeves. He looked back at me with a smile.

“I located a pleasant flat in central London. We have more than enough income together to afford it,” he mumbled over his shoulder, reaching for his scarf and tying it around his throat. I deflated, hoping for an in depth explanation. “Be there at exactly seven o’clock. I’d stay longer to discuss, but I think I forgot my riding crop in the mortuary. If you’ll excuse me -”

“Hold on,” I said quickly, limping behind him as he went down the hall. Holmes did not slow down for me. However, he did turn away from the stairs and went toward the elevator. We stepped inside as the doors opened. “We’ve barely met, and we’re going to move in together?”

Holmes looked incredulously at me. He quirked his lips and shrugged. “Of course. Problem?”

Hell no. “I don’t even know your first name, Mister Holmes. I don’t know a thing about you, nor do you me. Doesn’t that seem a little unsafe?”

“I know you don’t enjoy being with your family, though you used to, which is likely due to the fact that one of your brothers is alcoholic. However, it may be due to the fact that he recently left his wife. He worries about you, but you won’t let him assist you for those reasons. I know you have a wound in your back due to your stint in Afghanistan, where you acted as an Army doctor. And I know your therapist has noticed your limp and classified it as psychosomatic, a result of traumatic encounters during your time at war. She’s correct, I’m afraid,” Holmes monologued.

“How did you-”

“Is that enough to go on, or shall we divulge tedious childhood memories until the elevator stops?”

“That’s fine, yeah. Brilliant!”

“Brilliant?”

“What you just did there, that was brilliant.”

“Oh.” Holmes shifted uncomfortably and looked up at the glowing buttons of the elevator. He abruptly turned to me and nodded. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said casually.

I raised an eyebrow

“My name,” Sherlock answered simply.

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

“Likewise, John. Say, I’m looking for a flatmate.”

“What a coincidence! So am I,” I laughed, nearly breaking the charade.

“Coincidence, indeed. Would you consider checking out a flat with me? I’ve found one at two-two-one Baker Street,” Sherlock announced. I released his hand and nodded.

“That sounds lovely.”

The elevator doors opened before he had a chance to respond. His black coat swished as he twirled around to speak pleasantly to me again. If what I saw was right, a hint of his excitement wasn’t forged up for fun. “Splendid! I’ll see you tomorrow at seven,” Sherlock muttered over his shoulder. I hobbled along behind him.

“You didn’t need to do that. Mike probably would’ve told me if I asked,” I said to him. We moved down the hall and to the mortuary, where the fluttery girl was inspecting a cadaver.

"I know,” he muttered, instantly growing annoyed, as if I was putting him off by continuing our conversation.

“Er. Well, thank you. I best get back to Mike,” I said, pointing back at the elevator. Sherlock nodded and went to Molly’s side, grabbing the riding crop from the table and escaping out the backdoor.

Molly turned to me with a shy smile on her face. “I’m sorry if he was rude. He’s very straightforward.”

“Does he usually know everything about people he meets?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! His deductions are almost always right. Did he say anything horrible to you? He didn’t mean it negatively; he just says what he sees. He’s always like that, you know.”

I nodded and went to the door I came in through. Before I left, I glanced back at Molly. “Thank you, Molly.”

“See you soon, I hope!” Molly replied happily. Her mouth turned into a little ‘o’ and her cheeks filled with red. “I mean, not that I hope I see you down here for the same reasons as him,” she gestured to the cadaver, “that I hope I see you later. With Sherlock or something.”

“Right. See you later!” I said.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the flat, I was tense with excitement. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days. I paced for a few minutes before my leg became too much of a burden, then I made and drank two kettles worth of tea. Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me. I grabbed my mobile and scrolled through the messages until I reached the one Sherlock sent.

**If brother has green ladder,**  
 **arrest brother.**  
 **SH**

I reread the text a few times. Arrest brother? My eyes moved to the receiving number. Unknown. With a sigh, I pulled open my laptop, determined to do something to find out more about my new prospective flatmate.

After typing in _google.com_ and starting a query in the search bar, ‘Sherlock Holmes’, I found a large amount of results, ones ranging from a personal website to a page about birds that seemed out of use. The last post on the Twitter site was from a few months back. I turned to the personal website, ‘The Science of Deduction’.

“Well, that’s fancy,” I said to myself as I scrolled through. The layout was more intricate than my plain blog was. There were various pages on the site. I cautiously scrolled through a few of them, tobacco types, more deductions about people I’m sure Sherlock never truly met beyond a casual conversation, some cases… _Oh_. The text was about a case, I realised. Although I had no idea how a ladder could determine who committed a crime. Maybe Sherlock found green paint on the scene? I shook my head and switched on the telly.

“…and that’s all for today. Tune in again at 10,” the bubbly anchorwoman said. She was pudgier than the usual pink woman that announced the crimes, with long, brunette hair and a bright green jumper. It was bizarre to see someone other than Jennifer Wilson. Perhaps she had the night off. I yawned and shut the laptop, carrying it to my bedroom.

The soft duvet on my bed beckoned me. I quietly slid under it without changing out of my day clothes. My jeans clung to my skin in ripples of stiff, bluish fabric. I kicked my shoes over the edge of the bed and peeled my socks off with my toes. Another yawn ripped my mouth open.

In my half-asleep haze, I spotted a dark figure at the corner of my room. He looked small and unassuming. If not for the fact that he was intruding in my small flat, I would’ve thought he was innocent of most crimes. A fedora perched on top of his greying hairs. Beyond that, I couldn’t make out much more of him. The shadow man seemed to be a passive conjuring of my imagination, so I closed my eyes and let my exhaustion wash over me.

When I opened my eyes again, I was surrounded by men in military costumes. The sultry air choked my throat with dry heat. My larynx seized. I coughed and turned my head. Without thought, I reached down and clasped a canteen in my hands. I brought the opening to my lips and guzzled the water greedily.

To my right, I could make out a sandy tank. It appeared to be loaded. As the thought occurred to me, the deafening sound of gunfire ricocheted through my eardrums. I let out a small whimper and put my hands over my ears, dropping the canteen in the process. Men around me did the same. I noticed that one of them ( _Bill_ , my mind supplied) was lying on the ground with a hand over his thigh. It dawned on me that I couldn’t smell the death or blood in the air, nor could I see a spark of light around any of these men. It was almost as if I was looking at the scene around me with different eyes.

I went to Bill’s side and put a hand over his. He grimaced in pain. Our hands dripped with blood. I didn’t need to thoroughly inspect the injury to tell that his femoral artery was punctured by a bullet. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire intensified. I felt the air around us crinkle from the bullets. It whizzed by my ear. Dangerous white noise filled my head. I turned around and spotted a barrel pointed at Bill’s head. In that moment, I knew I could take the bullet and risk dying, or let Bill’s brains splatter on the beige grains around us. I didn’t hesitate and immediately felt a searing-hot stab in my shoulder. Bill gasped and wrapped his fingers around the fiery pinpoints. I fell back into his arms.

Above me, the sky shined white. I groaned as the ache faded into a thrumming massage. _God, please let me live._ I blinked, unsure where that thought came from. Bill shouted mutely at me, glancing around and waving his arms frantically to draw attention to me. More faces came into view. Behind them, I picked out a black, sinewy figure. His smile was wide, as if he’d just won the lottery or the like. I screamed at him to leave, at Bill to get help or to shoot. No one heard me. The sky brightened and washed out the faces of my comrades. Just before his face completely faded, I could make out the sound of Bill’s voice starting to call out, “ _Watson_!”

I jolted up from my bed. Light poured through the window, illuminating the area where the shadow man stood. Heavily gasping as much air as I could force down my gizzard, I jumped out of the bed and raced to the sitting room to grab my mobile. I scrolled through the contact list and yelped happily when Harry’s name appeared on the screen. I pressed the send button and waited, the dialling tone whispering in my ear. After six rings or so, a yawn came from the phone.

“What is it, Johnny?” Harry grumbled. I could hear her rubbing at her eyes sleepily.

“You were right. Something’s going on. I saw something last night-”

“Hold on. I’m coming.” The phone clicked, our call apparently ending. I cursed and tossed the phone on the couch.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock on the door alerted me of Harry’s arrival. Impatient as she was, she burst in, sporting a robe and bright blue slippers. Tufts of straw-coloured locks stuck out from the pony tail on her back. Under the robe, I could make out an Avengers tee and silky white pyjama bottoms. I snorted a laugh, which earned me a glare.

“I swear to God, John, if you’re just having me on, I will punch you,” she growled. Her fingers tightened into two bleached fists. A painted fingernail jabbed into my face. I gulped and nodded.

“I’m not. Sit down, please,” I murmured, gesturing to the couch. I sat down on one side and waited patiently for her to join me. Harry ignored me and continued pacing.

“What’d you see?”

“There was figure in the corner of my room before I fell asleep. It was in my dreams too.”

“A figure, right. Nice job. I came here for a bloody fucking figure!” Harry rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air.

“Harry, it smiled at me while I died,” I spat. “It was bloody well chuffed with me checking out.”

“Tell me more about that dream,” she stated slowly as she sat down beside me.

“There isn’t much to tell. I got shot in a desert,” I shrugged. Harry turned ashen and looked away.  “It stood over me and laughed, and no one heard me scream.”

“Oh. Well, that was,” she cleared her throat. She ran her hands over her arm and sighed. Her eyes stayed on the ground. “What did it look like?”

“Shadowy, fedora, and I think it had glasses.”

“Right,” Harry said, nodding her head. She slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her mobile, pressing an assortment of buttons and putting it to her ear. I watched in silence. “Hey, Mike, we got a situation. No, I’m fine. John’s okay, too. He thinks he might have seen something, though. Yeah, yeah.” She glanced at me and murmured into the phone. “…desert, yeah. He did? Shit, alright. No, I’ll go there and help you. Be there in ten. See you.” Harry snapped the phone shut and returned her attention to me.

“What’s going on?” I asked as Harry stood and went to the door. I followed behind like a terrier. Her pony tail waved back and forth.

“Mike and I got this, John. It’s not something you need to worry about just yet. You can go back to ignoring us or whatever you were doing before. We’ll call you with details. Sorry to leave in a rush, but you know how it is. Bye, brother!” She leaned down and kissed my forehead. I grumbled and pulled away. She laughed and stepped outside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I attempted to sleep a few more times, giving up at 11 in the morning in favour of a cup of tea and toast. My mobile lit up and broke out into the most annoying sound I’d ever heard. I cringed and picked it up.

**Baker Street. 7.**  
 **Don't be late.**  
 **SH**

I didn’t even begin to question how he obtained my number, or how he could think I would forget about it. I hurriedly swallowed my tea and tossed out the remainder of my toast, dashing to my room to change.

My clothes were smelly, and bunched up uncomfortably in random spots. I dropped my trousers and pants in one go and replaced them with new ones. The only pants I had, however, were scarlet. Sighing, I pulled them on and covered them with dark jeans. The jumper I slept in flew over my head. Before I put on the new one, I noted two smudges of red on the back. Turning to inspect it better in the mirror, I stretched my head over my shoulder.

In the mirror, I spotted weeping cuts on my back. _Jasim_ was printed on both of my shoulder blades, some of the lettering covering my weeping scar. I wiped my hand over the area and groaned loudly when my palm came back bright crimson. I went to the bathroom and rinsed my hand. The water ran pink. I knelt down and checked under the sink for the first aid kit. By the time I finished digging around for it, the marks had scabbed over. I tossed the kit into my room and rinsed my face off. I avoided thinking about the implications behind my back, opting to simply stare at the puckered skin on my abdomen. It looked like a metallic tattoo, a brilliant reminder of my past. I shuddered.

After returning to my room and pulling a jumper over the angry letters, I went about my day tidying up and boxing away what little I owned. Fortunately for me, I barely unpacked when I first moved in. Most of my possessions were boxed away by 6. I only needed to clean up my bedroom and the first aid kit, the last item I planned on putting away. A sound from the living room pulled me away from my work.

**221B Baker Street.**  
 **Come now, if convenient.**  
 **SH**

I sighed and threw the remainder of my clothes in a box as I dialled for a ride. Fifteen minutes later, a blinding yellow cab showed up and whisked me away to the flat in question. Much to my surprise, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. I sat on the steps and waited a few minutes.

The sky dimmed. My eyes fluttered shut as I yawned. Behind me, the door opened up. An intake of air caused me to look up, meeting the eyes of a kind-looking, elderly woman. She held a hand out for me. I cautiously grabbed it and used my cane to boost myself up.

“Oh, dear. That Sherlock must have let you all on your own. He should be here soon. I take it you’re the fellow he’s been talking about,” she said softly. Her chocolate eyes smiled at me.

“John Watson,” I introduced, shaking her hand with my own. She squeezed back and nodded.

“Mrs Hudson. Come in, love. I made biscuits later and you can nibble on them while we wait, if you don’t mind sitting around a bit until I finish starting the kettle up,” she said cheerfully. I stepped indoors and closed the door behind me, following the kindred woman to her flat. Mrs Hudson led me to the kitchen and had me sit at the small table. She pushed a plate of biscuits my way. I reached for one and took a bite of it.

“Thank you,” I lamented as she bustled about. “I can make the tea.”

“Nonsense! You’re a guest, dear. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to aggravate your back, would I?” She winked knowingly. I looked down. “Did I say something wrong? There’s some blood on your jumper, John...”

“Right, sorry. Thank you for pointing it out. I’ll clean it up later.” I cursed internally. Damn, I didn’t want to ruin another jumper today. Mrs Hudson smiled apologetically and hurriedly finished making the tea for us. She slipped in some honey and cinnamon before placing a small porcelain cup in my hands.

“I’m sure Sherlock won’t be too long, John,” Mrs Hudson said with a warm smile. I shrugged and drank in silence. When the tea was long gone and cups clean, we heard the sound of footsteps and the slamming of a door.

“Mrs Hudson!” a familiar, deep voice called. It sounded out of breath, like a marathon runner or a swimmer after doing laps. “If you would be so kind as to procure a batch of biscuits, preferably homemade, I would appreciate it greatly. I expect a guest – oh.” He stopped when his eyes settled on me.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, one hand full of his rich navy scarf, another of a plastic bag containing what appeared to be gag fingers. I hoped, at least, that they were so. Human fingers weren’t exactly what I expected of a man of such intelligence.

He followed my gaze and relaxed minutely. “Experiment,” Sherlock said, waving the bag like a prize. Smirking, I shook my head and sighed.

“Right. You didn’t kill anyone for them?” I asked half-heartedly. The man chuckled deeply. His Adam’s apple bobbed excitedly on his throat.

“Of course not. Molly obtained them from a donated body.”

“Ah. Good, then. I suppose. Why do you need fingers?”

“I’d love to indulge your curiosity, but certainly not with Mrs Hudson in the room. That would be inconsiderate.”

The lady in question turned to greet him. She stopped, however, at the sight of the appendages and let out a small gasp, moving then to smack Sherlock’s arm angrily.

“Not in my flat, Sherlock! That’s filthy!” she shrieked. She waved her finger at him. “Put those dreadful things in your refrigerator and show John around the flat. He’s been waiting on the doorstep for ages because you forgot him.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, waving me over. “Come, John. I’ve taken the liberty of signing for our flat, I hope you don’t mind. The documents that need your signature are on the kitchen counter. I’ve marked each line with an x. I hope you’ve brought your belongings. If not, we can collect it tomorrow morning.”

I stared dumbfounded. Did he really just make the decision for me, without my consent?  I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. Sorry. Are you sure we can afford this spot together?”

“Of course we can! Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock waved at her, “has offered us a special deal. She owes me a favour.” He winked at her, giggles surfacing on her lips.

“Oh, go on then!” the lovely lady laughed. My eyes wavered between the two of them. Mrs Hudson gave me a light push on the shoulder in encouragement. I leapt toward the door and followed Sherlock tentatively up the stairs.

He held the door open in a sweeping motion, an oddly considerate gesture from what I could tell of the man’s usual behaviour. I stepped into the messy sitting room and sighed. Boxes, papers, envelopes, a bloody _skull_ , and god-knows-what layered the flat’s interior. It would take hours to clean.

“I’ve taken the bedroom on the first floor, nearest to the kitchen. I need easy access to my experiments. There’s a room upstairs, a bathroom on the left-hand side in the hall, and one upstairs just by your room,” Sherlock said in a monotone. I smiled a bit and looked around. Thankfully, the mess seemed to stop just before the stairs, so the journey was definitely worth it. I turned back to him.

“How on Earth did you manage to make a mess like this so quickly, Mister Holmes?” I asked, lifting some of the folders and throwing them into a box. He cringed and removed them, discarding the lot on a table in the corner of the room.

“Sherlock, please. I attempted to unpack last night, but I got distracted before I could finish cleaning up. Pressing manners, you know,” Sherlock offered a small smile and leapt onto the couch, just about the only spot that was clean. His glare turned analytical when it rested on me. “What happened to your back?”

“How - ? Nevermind. I scraped it up. It’s nothing, really,” I said, lifting up today’s newspaper and skimming the front page. Sherlock grabbed a box from the coffee table and ripped it open with his teeth. His delicate fingers pulled out two nude patches, and then tapped as if considering taking another. He decided to, and slapped the three stickers on his forearm. I watched the ritual curiously. Sherlock noticed my staring.

“You’re a doctor, yes? Haven’t you seen nicotine patches before?”

No. “Yes. Sorry, but why did you use three?”

“I need them to help me think. It’s a three patch problem.”

“What is?”

Sherlock rolled onto his back and ignored my question. Frustrated, I went to what looked like the kitchen and put his fingers away. The fridge was bare if not for an apple, some jam, and the baggie. I cringed and sighed. It wouldn’t be too much of a trouble to bring all my food over in the move as well. That could last us a week at best.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the sleuth stand and saunter to the windowsill. The sound of a latch opening, then the strings of a violin being pulled reverberated through the walls. Apparently, Mrs Hudson heard the music and came up to check on us.

“Hello, dears! Oh, John, what do you think of it? I hope Sherlock showed you the spare room upstairs, just in case you need it,” Mrs Hudson winked. She put the biscuits from earlier on the counter and sighed.

“Just in case…of course we need it,” I coughed.

“Don’t worry; there’re all sorts here.” Mrs Hudson started. “Mrs Turner’s got married ones next door.”  Her voice turned motherly. “Sherlock, the mess you’ve made! You better clean it all, young man.”

I gulped and tried to look unfazed by her words. To distract myself, I went to the next room to watch my new flatmate play. He was nearing the end of his concerto. As the music pandered out, I clapped softly. “Lovely. What was that?”

“Just a draft. Hardly a piece of work. However, the tune is promising. I’ll expand on it at a later time,” Sherlock mumbled. He put the instrument into the case, but did not move away from the window. I cleared my throat to get his attention, but he didn’t move one bit.

“So I, ah, looked you up last night.” Sherlock’s head swivelled just enough to peer at me through the corner of his eyes.

“And? Anything of interest?”

“One thing, yes. Your website, The Science of Deduction,” I said as I recalled the blog with earnest interest. Sherlock’s expression became prideful, his smile blinding. “It was…informative.”

Sherlock faltered. “Informative?”

“Impossible. It’s outlandish. You said you can figure out where a man’s been based on his tie, or an occupation on the state of a man’s thumb,” I spat out without thinking.

“And I can tell you’ve an alcoholic brother and have spent the last few years of your life in Afghanistan.”

“How? You still haven’t told me,” I huffed, irritated. Sherlock winked and turned his attention back to the window just as Mrs Hudson came into the room. She continued tidying up, carrying papers to boxes and trinkets to shelves. She carefully avoided touching the skull. As she busied about, I went to the brown leather chair in the middle of the room and sat. She lifted the newspaper and held it up like a trophy.

“What about these three suicides, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street.”

“Four, actually,” he corrected. “I’ve been following the case for a while now. Three suicides in a few months, all with the same chemical found in their blood? It’s unlikely that they’re unrelated.”

Footsteps trotted upstairs. Mrs Hudson seemed embarrassed that the flat was in such a state of distress with a guest in until she spotted our visitor. He was a man of about forty years, with grey hair and an expensive-looking jacket over a blue and black suit. Bags lined the under part of his eyes. His badge peeked out from under the coat, ‘Lestrade’ just barely visible. As he stepped inside, I barely noticed that Sherlock had turned to face him. I slowly recognized him as my rare shooting partner.

“Where?” He asked simply. Greg seemed unsurprised at the question. He handed Sherlock a file, which was tossed on the desk without second thought. I snorted. Lestrade looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and then a soft smile.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” he replied seamlessly. “Something’s changed.”

“Oh, how delightful. What is it?”

“You know how they never left a note?”

“Yes.”

“This one did. Will you help?”

“Is Anderson on forensics?” Lestrade looked at the ground silently. “Damn! He won’t work with me. You know that.”

“He doesn’t need to work with you. He’s not your assistant.”

“But I need an assistant!” Sherlock whinged. I stifled another laugh. Lestrade tapped his foot and looked at his watch, impatient with the childish detective.

“No, Sherlock, you don’t. We need you. So are you coming with me?” he asked in a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“I’ll follow you with a cab.”

“Fine.” Lestrade turned and exited the room, nodding my way as he passed through the doorway.

As the door closed, Sherlock jumped with a triumphant yelp. His face lit up like a child’s on Christmas. As alarmed as I was by my flatmate’s increasingly disturbing love for crime and gore, Mrs Hudson seemed more put off by his unabashed expression of excitement. She grabbed my arm and pulled me aside for a moment as Sherlock pranced about the flat, grabbing his scarf and coat and heading down the stairs.

"He's a little bit strange, our Sherlock, but he helps the police more than anyone else could hope for. He's not always so crude, I promise! It's his way of keeping himself from being distracted. If he fretted over every death like we do, I’m not sure that he would be as good of a detective, Doctor Watson," Mrs Hudson explained. "I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind telling you more when the two of you have some time alone."

I nodded and followed her to the kitchen. "And the fingers and such...they're to help with crime-solving?"

"I'm not so sure. Sometimes they are, but...well, that's Sherlock."

"Right," I mumbled, limping to sit at the table. "Why is it you owe him a favour, Mrs Hudson?"

She froze and looked back at me through the corner of her eyes. "That's a story for another day, dear," she said with a tight smile. Sherlock trotted up the stairs eagerly, his curls fraying out in every direction as he came to my side.

"You're a doctor, correct?" he asked, his lungs beating out air in fast bursts. I nodded.

"And you've seen many horrifying deaths during your time in Afghanistan?" I nodded again, recalling my dream. Sherlock's face brightened marginally. He paused for a moment, apparently considering his words before he spoke.

"Would you like to see more?"

"God, yes," I replied. Sherlock clapped and bounced once.

"Splendid. Come along, John!" He flourished his coat and disappeared out the door again. I hobbled behind him as quickly as I could. Over my shoulder, I heard the sound of Mrs Hudson tsking and shouting after us.

"You boys best not bring any dirt or blood in when you get back!" I heard. Sherlock and I giggled and stepped onto the concrete. He looked back at me as he waved his arm out toward the road.

"Taxi!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a HUGE note to make about the story. The word jasim is actually written in a different text on my drafts and such, but Ao3 changes font so...  
> http://25.media.tumblr.com/1eb8c55d7de8ea521a910b1382ecb27d/tumblr_mx29iezd341sya9ffo1_500.png  
> I promise I’ll tell you what it means, but for now, I don’t want it to spoil the story (you can Google it if you really want to know).


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as the cab pulled up, Sherlock and I hopped inside. He prattled off the address to the cabbie and turned his attention to his mobile. I silently watched the city move beside us at a blinding speed. Not every day had I experienced the daily life of a normal person, and it seemed increasingly unlikely that I would ever have the chance to. For God’s sake, we were taking a cab to a crime scene. On top of that, the fingers, the dreams, and the bloody skull. I shook my head. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“What?” I asked as I looked at him. He simply raised his eyebrow, waiting for something. “What is it?”

“You’re thinking loudly. I can tell you have questions. Go on,” Sherlock said.

“Are we even allowed to go to…?”

“…Lauriston Gardens? Yes. Technically, no, but Lestrade allows me to visit crime scenes on occasion.”

“Why? No offence, but you don’t seem to be the kind of person people go out of their way to do favours for.”

Sherlock snorted. “If anything, I’m doing him a favour. He wouldn’t find the criminals without me.”

“It’s his job to find criminals.”

“Clearly, he can’t proficiently do his job.”

“Especially not if he’s consulting an amateur,” I chuckled. Sherlock glared and looked over me once. Immediately, he pulled my mobile from my jean pocket and flipped it over.

“‘For Harry, Love Clara,’” he read. “Unless you’ve lied to me about your name, Harry was the original owner of this phone. It’s practically new, so definitely not a hand-me-down, considering the fact that the mobile is only six months old. A gift then, likely from a lover, Clara. Why would Harry be giving you his phone? More likely than not, a break-up. If he kept the mobile, it would suggest that sentiment still plagued his mind. He didn’t; ergo, he no longer loves her or has a closer tie to you. I’m inclined to believe the latter is true. You don’t return the sentiment, or you would’ve asked him for assistance instead of finding a flatmate. You’d prefer to room with a complete stranger. That suggests that your ties to your brother are loose or compromised, bringing me to my next point.

“Your brother is an alcoholic,” Sherlock began. He didn’t stop to take a breath throughout his monologue or after. The only course of action he took was to toss me the phone. “The scuffing around the charging outlet. A steady hand would never leave such marks, whereas a drunk’s would tremor and create such an effect. You don’t approve of it; you’re a doctor and you know the effects of alcoholism.”

“Amazing,” I muttered, inspecting the phone to find the described marks. Spot on, almost.

“Pardon?”

“I said that was amazing.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they say?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock replied. I laughed and shook my head. The rest of the cab ride went on in silence.

When the cab came to a stop, I peered out the window to find an abandoned flat. The air was cold and clung damply to my coat, its bone-chilling fingers wrapping around my wrists and pulling me under. I stumbled back from the building, bumping the automobile’s door shut. Sherlock glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked in a low whisper. I glanced around, searching for the source of my fear. The street, dark as it was, provided no answer.

“Fine. Just fine,” I assured him as I pulled my coat tightly around myself, though the action did nothing to increase the warmth in my chest. I sighed.

“Come on,” Sherlock whinged. He tugged at my sleeve. The detective led me under police tape and into the home. He paused only to sneer at a policewoman and who I assumed to be Anderson in forensics. He insulted the pair of them as we skipped up the stairs. Lestrade greeted us on the second floor.

“Oi, hold on! At least put this on,” he yelled, handing a light blue coverall to Sherlock, who discarded it into my arms. I looked between them.

“You need it more than I do,” Sherlock said as he stepped around us and toward the body. I threw my coat off and pulled the coverall over my clothes. Sherlock handed me a pair of latex gloves, putting some over his fingers.

The scene itself was no more grotesque than I expected; a few splatters of blood painted the far right wall where the victim was propped. There didn’t appear to be a source from which the blood originated, but I guessed it came from her neck. Her hair clung to her forehead in damp bunches. I recognized her clothing almost immediately. It was the pink woman, Jennifer something, from the telly. An alarmingly bright pink coat, along with an equally stunning pink pair of shoes and suitcase, decorated her pale corpse. Her eyes stared blankly into space, a perfect preservation of her face in her final moments. I retched. The look of sheer desperation and hopelessness struck my core. A stinging fire burned my shoulder blades as I stared.

Sherlock knelt beside Jennifer and lifted her hair. He seemed to be working through a routine, checking her fingers, clothes, and face for anything he deemed relevant. I followed him with his eyes. A flash of movement behind me drew my attention from him for a second, pulling me in the direction of the back of the room. Once I assured myself that it was just the movement of a shadow, I looked back to Sherlock; he was standing over her with his mobile in hand. Lestrade came in the room with a notepad and a pencil.

“Do I need to take notes this time or will you make your assistant do it?” he asked, smiling teasingly my way. I emptied his hands and went to Sherlock’s side.

“What’ve you got for me, then?” Lestrade asked him. Sherlock merely smirked and continued typing.

“She’s unhappily married, judging by the state of her wedding ring. Mid-forties, clearly she works with the media. She was on a business trip, no on a trip under the guise of business. The victim was a serial adulterer, her line of lovers were likely those who first noted her disappearance. I wouldn’t doubt that -”

“What’s that on the wall?” Anderson asked, coming up the stairs and barging into the room, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. He stiffened and looked back to the splatter of blood, and then rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the mobile. I mirrored his motions and spotted the little writing Anderson pointed out.

Rache was scribbled in blood.

“It’s German, Anderson. Do shut up,” Sherlock spat. “The term means ‘revenge’.”

“’Rache’…are you sure she wasn’t spelling Rachel?” Anderson shot back.

“Of course not. Mrs -," Sherlock stopped and looked at Lestrade for assistance.

“Jennifer Wilson,” I piped up. Sherlock quizzically turned to me. “She’s on the news. I think she’s been gone for a day or so.” Sherlock smiled, impressed. I flushed.

“Mrs Jennifer Wilson,” he continued. “Is not the sort of woman to waste her dying moments scratching an unimportant name; it must be a clue relating to her killer.”

“The killer had a vendetta against her?” I asked.

“It would seem so.”

“And the others?”

“None had ‘rache’ written in blood above their heads, but the killer may have killed them for the same reason. The other victims had puncture wounds on the back of their necks as Mrs Wilson does.”

Her skin was, indeed, punctured just at the jugular. Two dots, less than a centimetre in diameter and an inch apart, contrasted against her skin. A little bit of blood dribbled down her neck. I wondered if Sherlock or the police ever considered this the work of a vampire. It was ridiculous to think, since vampires’ teeth were farther apart, but the thought made a little bit of sense. It could’ve been a wraith or a freakishly neat leviathan. I snorted at the thought.

“Wow, freak. You found someone just as strange as you,” Anderson commented. He was smirking, rightfully too, considering the situation. Sherlock, on the other hand, growled as if personally offended.

“Hey, it’s fine,” I muttered, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the room. “Let’s just go. There isn’t much left to find here.”

Sherlock leapt back as if shocked by electricity. “No. There’s more evidence. I need her mobile; there could be messages on it!” he fussed.

“There wasn’t a phone, Sherlock,” Greg called from the doorway.

“She would never leave without her phone. She’s unhappily married, carrying numerous affairs, and works on television. She needs an open line of communication. Where is her phone?”

Lestrade shrugged and went into the other room.

Sherlock hissed and stomped noisily down the stairs, obviously throwing a fit. I laughed, earning a wink from Lestrade. He saluted me with two fingers and looked back to Anderson. I limped over the stairs and to the lower level, where Sherlock had seemingly disappeared. The policewoman from earlier greeted me at the corner.

“Who are you then?” she asked. “Sergeant Donovan. Did the freak leave you behind?”

“A-Doctor Watson,” I replied. “I don’t know where Sherlock went, if he’s who you mean.”

“Yeah, Sherlock Holmes. He’s gone off to sulk. If I didn’t know better, I would say he went off for a hit.”

I stared at her.

“He used to use,” she explained. “He’s clean now, but he smokes a pack a day in the least. We tried to get him off it once, but he snuck around us.”

“Why are you telling me this? We only just met,” I wondered.

“You should know about your new friend, Watson. He’s dangerous. He’s a psychopath. He isn’t paid for helping us. He likes it. He gets off on it, that freak.”

“Right, yeah. Thank you for the information, but I think I need to go,” I grunted out, red clouding my vision. I walked away without looking back to the police woman. My fists clenched into balls and electricity sparked from my fingertips.

“Hold on! There’s a cab-”

“Goodbye, Sergeant Donovan!” I shouted over her. I didn’t understand the irrational anger I felt at her. She was doing her job, looking out for the sanctity of the force, and trying to protect me from whatever danger she thought Sherlock posed. It didn’t make sense, but I pictured myself chinning her and that Anderson man from earlier.

A woman with long, dark hair bumped into me as I stomped away.

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” she greeted. Her eyes, which were glued to the screen and otherwise completely out of reasonable sight, seemed illuminated in the darkness of the street. I marched forward, but didn’t tell her to leave.

“Hello,” I replied. “Do I get to learn your name since you know mine?” She smirked and glanced up, her glowing brown eyes locked onto me like a target. I gulped.

“I’m Anthea. Come with me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You don’t have a choice, Doctor,” Anthea said. She wrapped her hand around my bicep and tugged me into an alley. Well, fuck. Her eyes curiously remained glued to the device in her hand. I flexed, testing her strength. If I wanted to get away, I could. She had a weak hold on me, and her heels hardly allowed her to have much of a chance if I ran away. Anthea squeezed. Ice dripped into my bloodstream. I yelped and smacked her hand.

“I don’t want to harm you, but my orders are very clear. If you struggle, I am authorized to use force.”

“Alright, I’ll go with you! Let up, will you?”

Anthea nodded and stepped forward, leading me to a sleek, black vehicle down the way. Without looking up, she pressed her hand on my chest and pushed me onto the seat, and then proceeded to sit beside me.

We rode in silence.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Click._

_Ping._

“Excuse me, Miss?” I started, grasping the handle of my cane tightly. The phone in her hand continued to ping noisily in the back of the car. Our driver took no notice, though he did eventually grow as irritated as I was and closed the small compartment window between the front and back seats. The luminescent screen flashed another bubble of blue under the heading “M”. Anthea typed a response in her own silver bubble.

_y am i picking this guy up again?_

**Because my brother is a child.**

_very tru_

**He told me I was fat yesterday.**

_u did eat all the cupcakes in the house_

_and thats a big house_

**There were only approximately a dozen cupcakes.**

_only._

**My point is that we need to keep an eye on him.**

**Doctor Watson, I would appreciate if you would stop laughing and allow my assistant and I converse privately.**

I blinked. _What?_ How could ‘M’ know that I was...? Anthea glared up from her device and cleared her throat.

“Right. Sorry, I’ll just,” I trailed off, looking out the dark window to my left. Silence permeated through the atmosphere of the cab in a thick, bloody cloud.

In an effort to abide my own boredom, I pulled out my own mobile and typed a text out to the first and only contact in it.

_So what happened with Mike_

Nothing. Following a lead.

Im surprised you figured out how to work your phone, baby brother.

I could practically hear the snark in the tone of her electronic voice.

_Got it just fine harry_

_Is it to do with the murders or the dreams_

Maybe both. Mike isnt sure yet.

Anthea coughed, stirring the rusty dust. She thrusted a buzzing, chirping square into my hand and pressed a key. I heard a voice filter up through speakers.

“Doctor Watson,” the calm tone sang. “I see privacy is not an issue to you." I flinched.

"Nor is it to you. You've got cameras in here, right?" I asked, looking around the back of the cab.

"It is my car, after all. You haven't the slightest clue the sorts of things you see and hear in the back of a tinted van," the voice said, a smirk evident in its tone.

"Right. Can I go?"

"Of course," he replied cheerfully. I heard the sound of rustling papers on the other end of the line. "In a moment."

I glared at the device in my hand, and then at Anthea (Not Anthea?). "If I may ask, why are you kidnapping me?"

"I wouldn't call it kidnapping. I'd call it...a friend giving another friend a ride home. Now, shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Go home, Doctor Watson. I am waiting for you at your new flat, all of your belongings with me."

"That's a touch disturbing, mate."

"Hardly," M chuckled. I imagined him looking over the door to 221B, twisting a handle bar moustache. I laughed to myself. "You should arrive momentarily. We will discuss matters further when you have. Until then." The line went dead as Anthea retrieved her phone.

I looked to the window and, sure enough, we were on Baker Street. The car slowed to a stop. However, as I went to move, Anthea grabbed my arm.

"He doesn't know yet," she insisted, her fingers chilling my blood. The liquid nitrogen whispered. My veins became a crowded subway full of voices, loud and soft, deep and high, all saying the same thing. Yet, I couldn’t quite make out the words.

I jumped and nodded furiously, shivering. God, I hated when she touched me. Why did she do that? "Your name isn't really Anthea, is it?" I coughed. I felt the phone on my lap buzz once.

She shook her head, smiling coyly. "You can call me Penthea. It's a bit closer, and I like it," Penthea replied with a shrug. "Just be careful, John. He is suspicious of your identity. Whoever created it was a sloppy."

"Any chance you cleaned it up?" I asked hopefully.

"Yes, though not before my boss got sight of it," she replied, eyes returning to the device in her hands. For a moment, a haze around her reminded me of fog hanging over the asphalt on an early morning. It twisted through the air in microscopic wisps of wind and light. Colours danced around her, walking to an unknown beat. The cool hues I spotted, cobalt and indigo, webbed over her fingertips. I blinked and they disappeared.

"Hey, um," I started, my eyebrows coming together in confusion. She didn't even look up.

"Yes?"

I sighed, resigned. It wasn't worth pursuing. "Do you ever get any free time?"

Penthea smirked. "Oh, yeah. Loads." Eyes still glued to the screen. _Damn_.

"Bye," I muttered, turning from her and opening the door to the flat. She mumbled a quick goodbye, the sound of her footsteps fading away as we went our separate ways. Mrs Hudson's door was shut. A foreign coat was on the hanger by the door. In the background, I could make out two distinct people conversing.

"- be dangerous, Sherlock. He isn't-"

"Splendid! I do love danger," a familiar voice exclaimed, clapping.

A huff. "This is no laughing manner, I assure you. Even if this was a simply matter of improperly filed papers, John Watson is a dangerous man. He was a soldier, though I'm sure you knew that. He participated in exclusive, extremely secretive military missions-"

"-and he would tell me of those missions if it was relevant. It is not."

"Is it not relevant if your flatmate is legally deceased?"

"Clearly not. That statement is untrue."

"For an unknown reason! His papers were altered, by whom, I don't know."

"Piss off!" Footsteps marched above me, paused for a moment, and then erupted at the sound of a door being tugged open. "John!"

I flinched. Quickly, I heard the sound of Sherlock's bare feet scuffling down the stairs. He stopped when he spotted me.

"John, would you kindly tell him to piss off?" Sherlock asked, gesturing back toward the door to the flat. He led me upstairs, over a pile of disorganized dress shoes that littered the stairs, and splayed out dramatically over the couch. His arm draped over his eyes.

To the left, a red-haired man sat ( _in my bloody chair_ ). Anguish tinted the air around him a rustic chestnut. Burnt orange and tenné splashed over the top of his head. His fingers rubbed his temples; frustration evident not only in this aura, but his body language screamed it. The faint creases at the corners of his eyes spoke of years of stress. Without looking, he gestured to what I knew to be Sherlock's seat with the point of his umbrella.

"Ah, welcome. Have a seat, John," he said. I ignored him.

"You're M, right?" I asked. "We could've talked on the phone. You don't need to torment my new flatmate."

"Your new flatmate," he smirked. The colours shifted to deep rosewood. "Is fully capable of handling a few minutes of torture."

"Torture? This is irritation at best," Sherlock scoffed. "You're being over-dramatic, Mycroft." _Oh, God. Don't start this._

"Over-dramatic? Coming from the boy who skipped his own violin recital because of a rip in his trousers-" _Aren't you adults?_

"-My knee was torn open! It required six stitches! As I recall, you skipped my recital because your good suit-" _Jesus Christ._

"Mummy didn't notice my absence! Yours, on the other hand-"

"Give it a rest!" I shouted over them. "Hold on, Mummy?"

"Yes, Mummy. Our Mummy," Mycroft clarified. He turned from his brother and looked at me, eyes narrowing. He smiled in a false shape of courtesy. "Your leg must be bothering you, Doctor Watson. Have a seat." He punctuated each of his final words.

"I'm fine, thanks," I muttered, shifting on my cane. I'd almost forgotten that I had it with me. Sherlock huffed and rolled off the couch, stomping in the direction of the downstairs bedroom. He slammed the door shut behind him. A long pause lagged in the conversation.

"You don't seem very afraid," Mycroft said, quirking his head and looking over me as if I was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"You don't seem very frightening," I countered. This only further amused him.

"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?" _Oh, piss off._ "I wasn't referring to myself."

"Sherlock? He's even less frightening."

Mycroft laughed. "Even so, I'm told it's unnerving for someone to know so much about you when you know very little about him."

"It only makes sense that I know little of him. We met only," I paused to think. _Yesterday?_ It felt like at least a week. "Yesterday."

"Only yesterday and you've already gotten a flatshare and solved crimes together. Shall we anticipate a happy announcement by Friday?"

"John!" Sherlock shouted from his room. "Is Mycroft still there?"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" I yelled back.

"Tell him to bugger off!"

"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything," Mycroft muttered, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Not at all," I replied, throwing him a cheeky grin. "Could we do this another time?"

"Certainly. Let me clear up one matter," he replied, reached for a small notebook in his pocket. "Do you intend on remaining at this address, correct?"

"I don't think that is any of your business."

"And remaining with my brother?"

"Definitely not your business."

"Oh, it most certainly is. I am willing to pay you a small sum -”

"No, thanks."

"I haven't given you a number."

"Nor have you given me a reason to help you," I announced as I got up from my chair and opened the front door. "Out." I could pick up on a muffled, "finally!" from Sherlock's bedroom. Mycroft nodded, rose, and exited without another word.

As the front door slammed shut, the door to what I assumed was to be Sherlock’s bedroom flew open. He sulked like a petulant child, stomping around the room eagerly in thought.

“Sher -”

“One moment, John,” he muttered dismissively, waving his hand as he went along with his frenzied dance.

“Sherlock.”

Silence.

“Sh -”

“What?” he growled. I wrote a mental note for myself: gets crabby after meeting with brother. It was understandable though. The older Holmes unsettled me more in the past hour than any other person I’ve met.

“Christ, calm down.”

“He is absolutely infuriating!”

“I know, but he’s gone now.”

“And you,” he spun around, his eyes suddenly cool and curious. “Why did you turn him down? We could’ve split the fee. It’d help with the rent.”

I shrugged.

“How intriguing,” Sherlock muttered, rolling onto the vacant couch with grandeur that only an extremely posh git could muster.

“Glad you find my looking out for you intriguing.”

“Turning down a bribe is hardly looking out for me, John.” I could hear his eyes roll.

“Well, it’s certainly being a good friend.”

“Dull.”

I snorted. “Right, well, if that’s all, I think I’ll be going to bed. I’ve had a strange day.” A noncommittal noise rose from the couch. I limped up the stairs as quickly as possible.

My room was plain, just like the one at my old flat. It had sheets, a painted wall, an empty dresser, and a tidy floor. I smiled. At least one room in the house hadn’t been contaminated.

I discarded my trousers and shirt, and hopped into bed. Closing my eyes, I tried to concentrate on the smell of detergent and cotton. Eventually, sleep rushed over me like a silent bandit.

_Blackness._

_Iron._

_Bodies._

_Sand._

I blinked. The stench curdled in the air like spoiled milk. It was positively acrid, nauseating after a moment of exposure. I wiped my head around, spotting a nearby shoulder. Feathers fell out of the corner of my eye. Below me, I watched them sweep the tears off of Mycroft’s cherub face. He bit his lips, looking up at me with an expression I imagined he almost never allowed to creep up on him. It would be foreign, if not for the heavy implication of youth over him. He was a good head shorter than I last saw him, and his cheeks were dusted with soft freckles.

Next to him, I spotted a young, curly haired boy on a shaggy-red dog. They yipped around the yard, looking up at us. I smiled down at them.

“Falling stars! Look!” the shrill voice exclaimed. “My!”

“We need to get inside, Bill,” he whispered. Mycroft’s small voice carried to my ears. I froze and stared at the tiny figures below.

“But!”

“Stars are irrelevant, Sherlock. Utterly unimportant. Forget about them, _please_. We need to get inside,” he murmured nervously. I swooped a little lower to get a closer look at his face, only spooking him more. His eyes were saucers in his pale and red face.

“Mycroft?” I tried. He blanched.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Move!” Mycroft hissed to the boy. He snagged Sherlock by the hand, who had a loose hold on the pup’s collar with his free little paw, and dragged him indoors. Sherlock stared up at me in wonder.

“Who…?” the child started. He stopped as a splatter of gold covered his lips and face in an unnatural spray of angel’s blood.

I didn’t feel it. Not right away. The twisting, turning tentacles of Otherness crawled over my skin and permeated throughout my body, but it was a casual caress. It didn’t _hurt_. It was reassuring, even.

I didn’t even hear him scream.

I felt the blood pool over my skin in a wet, sticky, and hideously uncomfortable way. Stars collided before my eyes and I fell down amongst the lilies and the chewed-up dog toys.

Pale blue eyes captured my own. I cried. _Who are you?_

He asked again.

Again.

Gold dripped down his chin.

His body was pushed inside.

A freckled frown shook at me.

“I’m so sorry.”

Hushed anguish.

I woke up screaming.

As I blearily returned to the waking world, I spotted a shadow in the doorway.

“Oh, piss off,” I grumbled, not expecting an answer from the haunting figure that nearly always laughed at my anguish.

“You were screaming,” Sherlock replied instantly. I jumped up.

“Christ! You could warn a man!” I shouted.

“You saw me.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was you.” Beat. I opened my eyes and looked up to him. “What do you want, then?”

He paused for a moment. “I find that cool air helps rid the mind of troubling nightmares,” Sherlock suggested quietly. He fiddled with the edges of his coat.

“Yeah, yeah,” I whispered, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll be down in a mo’.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was the type of man who appreciated silence better than any other human being I met. Thus, when we went out in the cold night, he gleefully accepted my leniency toward the quiet by allowing himself a small smile as we passed shops and other flats. Neither of us wanted to breach the reason for our late night escapade. The dark mood he embraced in the flat was completely forgotten, and my dream was disregarded.

Though the streets were not nearly silent or inactive, I found that this activity was the most calming I’ve done since coming to Earth. I glanced down at my mobile as I recalled the text message I received with Penthea.

**Want 2 grab a coffee tomorrow? Got good news! Mike**

I sighed.

_Sure._

“Your brother?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, brow quirked. Violets and blues swirled around his eyes. It took a few moments before I could recover enough from the beautiful sight to speak.

“No - ah - Mike. I don’t actually have a brother,” I replied with a shrug. His face dropped.

“But Harry -”

“Harriet,” I corrected.

“Damn! It’s always something,” he grumbled, after a short pause. The discovery, however, barely seemed to affect his mood. The smile on his face quickly reappeared. There was a small lull in conversation, perhaps five minutes or so, in which we spent pointedly not looking at one another. Sherlock was the first to speak.

“As flatmates, we have a certain level of expectation from one another, correct? A standard of disclosure that we should uphold?”

I paused, and then smiled. “There isn’t much to tell. You can deduce just about anything you want to know.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed. “I suppose.”

“Oh, yeah. How’d you learn?”

“Practice,” he began. “Take the woman ahead of us. She’s an art major at the local university. I can tell this by the size and amount of books in her bag; a few, but they are outnumbered by sketch pads and utensils. If we were closer, I’m certain we would see calluses on her left hand due to her frequent drawing.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“Quite. She is heading for a meeting, likely with a model of some sort.” He paused and gestured to the left of us where a strip of small flats where located. Coincidentally, the girl backtracked and went toward them. “She’s been stumbling frequently and watching street signs almost religiously. If she was heading to her own home, she would be more comfortable with the route.”

“How do you know she is going to a meeting?” I prompted.

“There are few instances in which you would go to an unfamiliar flat: meeting with a study group, meeting a client, or providing some sort of service.”

“What about going on a date?”

“Have you gone to your significant other’s flat without a relatively good idea of the location of said place?”

“No.”

“Exactly. She’s travelled up and down this road twice in the time that we’ve been on it. I know she’s going to meet with a model because she is carrying sketching materials as well as a portfolio.  A study group would hardly require a portfolio, though the presence of her books could easily sway one’s assumption in that direction.”

“She probably knows her model, then, right?”

“Excellent guess! What evidence do you have to support your thesis?”

“Well, if she was meeting with someone for the first time, she would want to look more professional. She’s got her schoolbooks with her and paint-coated jeans on.”

The girl knocked tentatively on the door. She adjusted her glasses and wiped her hands on her jeans. When it finally opened, a thin, dark haired girl greeted her with a hug. Her skin, a shade darker than chocolate, accented the paleness of the artist. I looked away before either could close the door.

“My flat is just a little farther ahead.”

“I see.”

“It’ll just take a second -”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

The lock to my front door stuck. I budged it twice before the confirmatory _click!_ of gears alerted me that I could now enter. Regrettably, the flat was not in a fit state. It was disgustingly boring, a fact that my guest keenly pointed out to me. “It hardly appears to have a tenant at all,” Sherlock grumbled, his cheery demeanour dropping like a hat. I wondered vaguely if it was all a rouse to coerce me into moving in, or if tedium really had such an effect on him.

“Well, it doesn’t anymore,” I replied dismally. _Thank Heavens for that._ Not that the flat wasn’t inhabitable. It was lonely and, actually, quite drab. I didn’t want to admit it, though. Not out loud.

Sherlock nodded and went to the kitchen, to presumably clean out my refrigerator. I mentally thanked him (though I wished he would spare my teabags and jam from the bin). Suddenly, a sounding crash filled the air.  

Rolling my eyes, I went to complete the little packing I had left. The first aid kit, really the only item left unpacked, was located in the restroom down the hall. The kit sat on the sink, opened as I left it. I shuffled the contents around to check if its supplies needed to be restocked. As far as I could tell, only a few ace bandages were missing. There were adequate amounts of everything else, though I had an aching suspicion that I would need to take monthly trips in the future to ensure that its current status remained that way. As I went to shut the lid, a flash of light in the mirror caught my eye.

Slowly, the sensation of being pushed engulfed me. A cold feeling, not unlike metal and dry ice, seared the skin on my shoulders. I tumbled forward, scraping my forehead on the corner of the mirror. Bloody hell. Red droplets decorated my sleeves. I hissed and placed a hand over my forehead, drawing it back to find a crimson layer over the pads of my hands. Thankfully, it was barely a scratch; head wounds bleed incredibly. Also thankfully, the med kit was still out. I quickly cleaned it and held a small gauze pad to it to stop the bleeding.

Hand over the cut, I stumbled into the bedroom and closed up the last box, tossing the kit in on top. To further busy myself, I straightened the sheets and emptied the (basically empty) trash. When the noise in the kitchen finally settled, I juggled the grand total of two boxes into the sitting room.

At the sight of me, Sherlock sighed as if I was inconveniencing him in the worst way possible; however, he took one box from me without a word. I didn’t hear a single peep from him until we were on the street and his deductions of passersby broke the floodgates and a slew of various observations flooded the space between us.

“Banker, affair, two children, two, no, three cats; bartender, part-time prostitute in order to raise money to sustain drug addiction, lives alone; mother, young pregnancy, child still infantile, breast feeding, afflicted with an anxiety disorder.” He continued talking as he sloshed the box back and forth. A few of them caught wind of what he was saying, though they were far too stunned to do a thing about it.

Finally, we approached the flat and discharged my boxes in my tomb of a bedroom. We parted with hesitant goodnights, as if he feared another nightmare, but I knew I would sleep well tonight.

 


	8. Chapter 8

_I did not, do not, and never will understand the nature of my flatmate. Currently, the mad man is burning a jarful of eyeballs under the guise of experimentation. He says he needs to know the rate at which they melt (if at all) for a case. A case! It doesn’t even pertain to the case we’re working on now._

_At least I can no longer say that nothing happens to me._

_At my side, the smell of burning eyes (oh, God) fumigates all smells from the flat. I glare at the mop of curls across the table. After a week of living together, I’ve discovered many new facts about myself and Sherlock. First of all, I am not keen on the idea of waking up at three in the morning to the sound of screeching instruments (or dying animals. I can’t be sure which happens). Next, Sherlock is **not** a day person. He sleeps from five in the morning to noon, if at all. Frequently, he skips the ordeal all together and remained awake for forty eight (or more) hours before finally crashing. Sherlock behaves erratically and his moods swings follow thusly. One day, he will gallivant around the flat, flourishing his violin, paperwork, or mobile with such prestige that one could only picture him as a knight; and the next, he’d slouch, mope, and stomp about like a toddler. He can be kind, cruel, and apathetic in a single sentence. _

_Oddly enough, despite his flaws, I enjoy living with him. The aches in my leg and shoulders are gradually fading. Nightmares still plague me, albeit less than before, and they are easily chased away on the odd occasion that Sherlock played songs on his violin._

_Good news! I've got a job, thanks to my mate Mike. I start next week. Can't wait._

_Case wise, very little has changed. One more victim was found in the same conditions as the others. However, this scene, like Jennifer Wilson's, was different. It ;dlfgdfh/_

Suddenly, loud banging broke my concentration. I jumped. Lestrade knocked on our door. Sherlock immediately slammed the laptop on my fingertips and pushed me upstairs.

"Get dressed. Now," he ordered. I could tell simply by the sound of his voice that there was no bargaining with him for more time. I sighed, struggling to break free. "There's been another murder."

“I _am_ dressed, you bonehead. I just need to put on a bit of deodorant-”

"Then do it! Don’t take too long! Anderson will have mucked up the scene by the time we get there." Sherlock turned away from me and dashed down the stairs. He shouted with mad glee. "Thirty four year old male, apparent suicide, traces of blood on his neck and the walls!"

"That doesn't seem as interesting as you're making it out to be."

"They found a folded ace of spades under his tongue!"

"Alright then." 

I quickly deodorised and joined my flatmate downstairs. He was unnecessarily put up in a ravishing purple dress shirt that clung to his skin and a nice slate grey suit. My oatmeal jumper paled in comparison.

“Let’s go!” Sherlock yelled, stomping down the main stairway to the cab likely waiting below. I followed in silence. Sherlock held the door for me, babbling about the case into my ear. Already, he knew the victim was likely a gambler.

“That’s what the card is telling us!” he gushed. “And more often than not, he bluffs. Claims he has the best cards, when he really doesn’t. It’s a dangerous he plays. I imagine many a folk would hold a grudge against him. Oh, this has gotten _interesting_!”

“A gambler with a card under his tongue is interesting?”

“The metasymbolism, John! The killer needs inspiration, and he’s likely looking to the victims for the source now. He’s working, working very hard, to get to us, the wisdom he seeks. Oh, the _irony_ of the card of death is exquisite. A double-edged sword of meanings, it is; strife and survival, and resignation and death. How unthinkably _brilliant_!”

I let a smile stretch across my face. Only Sherlock. I was a little proud, granted, in his ability to identify anything relevant to the case from the small amount of information he was told. I could only imagine what he would spill when we arrived.

“He’s communicating with us! The arrogance! He believes himself untouchable, fundamentally so. It’s unnerving.”

The cab didn’t even get the chance to stop before Sherlock was out the door and speeding to the scene.

Unfortunately, our crime scene was located at a heavily populated casino, of which only the room in which the murder happened was blocked off. Sherlock pushed through the ground, following Donovan’s instructions to find the area without an insult. He must’ve been extremely focused to have the willpower to do so.

As the casino population grew increasingly denser, I struggled to keep up with Sherlock. I hobbled awkwardly with Greg on my left arm, dragging me forward while pushing others away.

I soon discovered exactly why the crowd increased in thickness. They found the scene, and spotted the body. Not many people could say they’ve seen a real one before, so naturally, they jumped at the chance to catch a glimpse. Unfortunately for them, Sherlock was around. And he was by no definition shy. So, when he pried open the mouth of the victim with a loud _crack!_ from the rigor-mortis stiffened jaw, a wave of nausea and horror smacked the faces of those with a front row seat. Soon following the event, the crowd disappeared.

Sherlock smirked, proud of his work.

“Did that actually accomplish anything, or did you just want people to leave?” I asked as I approached.

“A bit of both. I was curious if perhaps our victim’s tongue would provide any insight into the mind of our killer.”

“And has it?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.”

Sherlock’s stern glare met my eyes, his hand extending to the body on my left. “Lestrade, the card,” he spat.

A sigh escaped from Greg’s lips. “Honestly, Sherlock, you _could_ ask nicely,” he grumbled, placing the carefully wrapped, neatly unfolded Ace of Spades.

“Is this the first of the cards found at a crime scene?”

“We believe so. Dunno why he would choose to change his M.O. after his fifth victim.”

“Boredom, perhaps. Or perhaps the M.O. _didn't_ change,” Sherlock muttered, looking back at the body. “He died like the others. However, if you care to turn him over, you’ll find a nasty bite mark on his neck not unlike the one found on Mrs Wilson’s. It appears to be a post mortem wound. As I told John in the cab, our victim is a gambler, and a habitual liar. He nearly always bluffs when playing card games, likely the reason for his special token.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. Go on.”

“The killer is trying to get attention from me or the police force, some source he deems a provider of wisdom. He draws inspiration for his murders based on the victim.”

“Come to think of it,” I piped up. “Wouldn’t taking Jennifer’s phone and dropping her off at an abandoned home fit her?”

“Yes, astute observation,” Sherlock praised. “The card intended to mock our victim-”

“Robert McHughes-” Lestrade interceded.

“As did removing the phone from Jennifer Wilson. She _lived_ on it, so he took it away.”

“Clever,” Anderson mumbled from behind us. Sherlock pointedly ignored him.

“With her sneaking around, vacant homes were likely one of the sorts of scenes she and her lovers mingled at. It would draw no attention their way and couldn’t be traced back to them. Mr McHughes practically lived at the card table, thus his life ended there,” Sherlock finished, turning to Lestrade with narrowed eyes. “I need the files of the other victims immediately.”

Lestrade nodded, his eyes glazed over. “I think we’ve got all we need. I’ll drop the files off later. See you then, lads.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated (:

Sherlock’s den, or rather his bedroom, embodied pure, unrestrained chaos. I entered his room in an attempt to put away his laundry, to find the sleuth chain smoking on the bed. There was a predictable zero visibility. I tripped over an experiment of sorts (or a shoe) and utterly wrecked his sock index, earning a rude, abrupt “ ** _out!_** ”

I slithered out and escaped into the living room, gasping for air. How could he handle that much smoke? How could he even see the files clear enough to study it? I pondered this as I started dinner. A simple recipe, lent to me by Mrs Hudson, for lasagne sat on the counter. I tried to follow the instructions religiously, but as I took the pan out of the stove, I found it didn’t look nearly as good as Mrs Hudson’s.

However, the positive side effect of cooking (i.e. perking up the great, sulky detective’s appetite) took effect within ten minutes. The smog cleared from the flat as his royal highness marched back into the land of the living, files nestled under his elbow. His claws remained gripped around the papers as if they held the secret to life, which I suppose, in this case, they did.

Sherlock sat with his files spread out on his side of the table. He read in silence for a few minutes, the quiet shifting of papers filling the air.

“John, door,” he said suddenly, the sound of footsteps bouncing up the stairs.

“Sherlock, busy,” I shot back as I started brewing a pot of tea for the pair of us. Behaving as if he were personally offended, Sherlock huffed and stomped to the door, flinging it open and returning to the table. Lestrade stood in the doorway with a smirk on his face.

“Hey, gents,” Greg greeted. He held another file in his hand to match the stack on the table. “Got anything yet?”

“Our victims’ deaths all seemed to compliment their lifestyle. Drebber, our first apparent victim, died in his office. His wife and coworkers describe him as a workaholic, even going so far to say that he was married to it,” he replied, turning to Lestrade. “Not unlike myself. Our second victim was found on the streets, correct?”

“Yeah, a tip came in saying they found a missing boy. They found a syringe in his pocket.”

“‘Missing’? No. He left home after emptying his father’s wallet, presumably to purchase the drugs on his person. He was an addict, desperate to get his next hit. ”

“So it still fits,” I interrupted. “Homeless kid on the streets.”

Sherlock nodded and continued his analysis of the victims. “Elizabeth Davenport was our third victim.”

“Where was she found?” I asked.

“Her body was located at a bank. Specifically, in her vault.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lestrade mumbled. Sherlock grinned and leapt from his chair, carrying one of the bulkier files with him.

“On the contrary. Miss Davenport was stealing large quantities of money from her office while she lived,” Sherlock explained, practically forcing the file in Lestrade’s hands. The D.I.’s eyes widened as he read the papers, the numbers scattering everywhere over the sheets. From here, I could see six place holders on her bank note. His mouth thinned as he passed the file back.

“Okay, so workaholic, homeless junkie, thief, adulteress, then gambler? I don’t see the pattern.”

“Sin,” I whispered. Two pairs of eyes honed in on me, both asking the same thing.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Haven’t you ever been to a church?” I asked. He simply stared. “The Seven Deadly Sins?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

I looked to Greg, incredulous. He shrugged.

“Sloth, gluttony, greed, lust, pride?” I suggested.

“That’s five.”

“Yes, I can count.”

“You said there were seven deadly sins.”

“And?”

“There will be two more victims.”

The flat was silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “What are the other sins?” he asked. “Obviously the ones you’ve listed are expressed in our previous victims.”

“Hang on, sloth?” Lestrade asked. “That’s not.”

“The workaholic,” I replied. “Sloth is not doing something vital, something you should. He wasn’t taking care of his family or himself, just the work.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “The sins, John.”

“Envy and wrath,” I said. Sherlock exchanged a look with Greg, who seemed to grow more distressed as the seconds passed.

“So we’re looking for anyone who’s jealous or angry? That’s just about everyone,” Greg remarked.

“ _Exceedingly_ envious or wrathful, Lestrade. I doubt that our killer would choose a random pedestrian as a victim. “

“Right. How do we find the next victim before he does?”

“We find the killer.”

“And how do we do that?” Sherlock gave him a _look_ , one that decidedly meant _stop asking questions, or I’ll hit you_. Lestrade complied.

“I will let you know if I find anything helpful. Until then, make whatever public warning you deem necessary. Our killer won’t be scared off even when you alert the public to his presence.”

Lestrade nodded and turned to leave, his hand on the door for a good minute before speaking. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waved a hand, making Greg smirk. He quietly opened the door and left, leaving Sherlock and I alone. The detective turned to me with a stern, determined look on his face.

“How well versed are you in religious matters, John?” he asked slowly.

“Well enough,” I replied.

“Is there any story that heavily depicted envy that could inspire our killer?”

“Sherlock, there are dozens of stories in the bible that could inspire him. Lucifer and God, Cain and Abel, King Herold, Jacob and his twelve sons, Job, King Saul and David, Jacob and Esau. I don’t know.”

“You’re not very helpful,” he huffed.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, not realizing he had already stomped out of the room until he slammed his bedroom door shut. Smoke drifted out from under the door almost immediately. I sighed. 

There wasn’t much more I could do at the flat. I wasn’t going to sleep, not with my nightmares, and I didn’t have anything else to add to my blog. I decided to clean up the mess in the kitchen. It didn’t take long, and soon I was left bored. To occupy the time, I sent a text to Mike.

_ Hey, mike. What’re you up to _

He replied much faster than I anticipated. Lounging on the couch rather comfortably, I unlocked the screen and read his message. 

** At the bar. U? **

_ Nothing. Harry with you _

** No. Want 2 come by? **

I really wanted to, God. I hadn’t seen Mike since he found my new job, and I really missed going out. But the case was just important. If I left and a new lead came up, I’d feel terrible for going. Granted, the chances of that happening were low.

_ I really shouldn’t _

** Come on John. **

Well, even if there were developments in the case while I was at the bar, Sherlock would text me. It’d be alright if I left for a few hours.

_ Alright. Where am i going _

** Booking Office **

The cab ride was fairly short, hardly scenic, and when he stopped, I tossed a few bills at the driver and went inside. It was a nice bar, the atmosphere was pleasant, and I found Mike easily. He waved me over.

“John!” he greeted, lifting his glass. He turned to the bartender. “I need another one of these for my friend.”

I smirked. “I’m fine, Mike,” I replied.

“I insist! My treat,” he grinned. The bartender slid a glass my way. It looked like traditional vodka, so I took a swig. Oh, yeah, it definitely was.  It burned my throat as I swallowed.

“Thanks, mate,” I mumbled. Mike shrugged and slapped my back. I cringed, the area still sensitive. My back hadn’t fully healed yet.  Mike pulled back.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, fine. Just a little sore.” I looked around the room and downed the rest of my drink. The bar was pretty full, save for a small corner that remained deserted throughout the night.

“Hey, let me treat you tonight,” Mike replied, waving over another bartender. “We never got a chance to celebrate your new job.” He winked at me, and then turned to the bartender. “Two burnt brandies, please.”

Our drinks came quickly, and went down easily. I swallowed, feeling a clench in my throat. The warmth was comforting. The buzz drowned out whatever drab Mike was babbling about. I swore I heard him say something about a six-toed cadaver and Sherlock. I laughed.

“How are the pair of you getting along?” he asked.

“Just fine. He’s prat.” That made Mike laugh with me. “We’re working on this case, right? Anyway, there’s this guy. He’s killing people because they sin, which I mean, that’s extreme, but it sounds like -”

“Like one of those religious nuts they’ve got down here? Yeah, yeah. I met loads of those type. Don’t you dare let them catch wind of you, or they’ll never leave you be. We had a few of us recalled ‘cause of ‘em.”

“Christ, really? Well, anyway, no. It’s like that shadow I told Harry about. It liked killing, liked watching me die.”

“We di’nt find anything, John. It was just a nightmare.”

“Bollocks,” I grumbled. “Do you really think it was one of those people?”

“Sure. There aren’t many of ‘em, so your killer should be easy to find.”

“Right. Thanks, Mike.”

Mike raised his second brandy, and I reached for mine. The glittering amber liquid sloshed around in our mugs. I waited until the edge of his glass touched his lips before I drank my own. I waved over a bartender and got a couple of glasses of water for the pair of us. Mike raised a brow, and then smiled. I passed one his way and he quickly guzzled it. I did the same.

Quickly, our seconds became our thirds, and then our fourths. I was careful to make sure both of us had some water between each drink. Mike made some joke, I don’t remember what, and started laughing, and I started laughing, and soon, a small crowd around us started laughing. The air trembled while we laughed over nothing. Mike slung his arm over my shoulder.

“I’m a little drunk,” he hiccupped. His hair softly swayed. Light bubbled from his glasses. A subtle glow lit up the bar where we sat. Mike laughed again, and I joined him. I didn’t really know what was so funny, though.

“Me too,” I chuckled. I floated at the bar. A thin man with a white suit bought us both another round. Well, he tried to. I turned around with a smile on my face. “No, no thanks, mate. We’re good.”

He shook his head, insistent. Mike pleaded with me a little, his lips doing this trembling thing. I sighed, giving up, and nodded. The man grinned.

“Geoff,” he said, holding out a hand. It took a moment of staring before I realized I should shake it. Geoff laughed while Mike mumbled something about a dead weight.

“Mike,” Mike said, waving my way. “And John.”

“Anthea,” a quiet voice from behind whispered. I turned, grinning at the brunette.

“Hey,” I said. Mike looked a little confused, but decided not to care. Penthea pressed against my side to whisper sneakily in my ear. Mike and Geoff prattled about some football team.

“I’m here to take you home,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t be here right now.”

“I don’t need a chauffeur, thanks.”

“Come with me. I’d rather not cause a scene.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. I stuffed a few bills under my new brandy and said goodbye to Mike and his new friend. Penthea led me by the elbow. Strangely, this time, she didn’t have a phone in her free hand. Her eyes drifted between me, the bar, and a pair of guys in the corner of the bar. Suddenly, one of them began shouting. She tugged me hard toward the door.

“What is wrong with you?” the man shouted at his partner. His voice reverberated in my head. “You have _everything_. You have Lucy, kids, a house! I _wish_ I was as lucky as you!”

The words bounced back and forth between the two, and it took me a moment to understand. The shorter man cleared his throat and looked around, not wanting to cause a scene. “Cal, listen, let’s talk about this, you know, somewhere else,” he said.

“No, no. I’m done talking. Goodbye.”

“Wait, Cal!” the other guy yelled.

“Fuck off, Adam.”

“What’s going on?” I asked Penthea. She pushed me through the door and toward the familiar black car.

“Just a bar fight. Some brothers, like the Holmes, do not get along well. Nothing to worry about,” she promised. I nodded, smiling. They were a weird pair of people. Archenemies.

“Okay,” I said. Penthea kept look out the window, back to the bar and Mike, and I remembered. “How will Mike get home?”

“There’s a car waiting for him outside the building.” 

“Mmm.” I leaned back and closed my eyes. My head drifted until it landed on Penthea’s shoulder. Oddly, she didn’t push me away. I bet she was on her phone again. All I could see was the light glowing behind my eyes and Geoff and Mike laughing, and then we were home and Penthea was shaking me and telling me to get out. I didn’t see a phone on her. Good.

“You know, it’s a little creepy that Mycroft follows me around,” I slurred as she guided me up the stairs.

“A little precaution he has in place for both you and his brother. It’s entirely for your safety.”

“‘Course it is,” I yawned. She propped me up on the wall and unlocked the door. I didn’t want to know how or why she had a key. She probably took mine. 

“John?” a muddled version of Sherlock’s voice called. “What did you do?”

Penthea stiffened; her hands snapped away form my arms. She stepped back from me, allowing Sherlock space to direct me where he pleased. Scrawny fingers wrapped around my sleeve and pulled me inside.

“Nothing. He was at a bar and needed a ride home.”

“Is this true?” he asked me quickly. I think I nodded. Penthea smiled.

“Watch him closely,” she said, turning abruptly and leaving me and Sherlock alone. I was helium and I floated to the ceiling nearly, only Sherlock anchored me by my cuffs.

“You need sleep,” he said softly. I nodded again. My hands grabbed his. He tugged forward. 

“Come on.” He pulled me toward his room. I gave him a _look_ , rubbing my thumbs on his forefingers. The skin was scared and smooth and felt like feathers.

“Would you rather navigate another staircase?” I shook my head. My fingers kneaded into his. I think I heard a joint crack. Sherlock continued taking me toward his room, a smirk on his face. I blinked and I was on the bed and Sherlock’s hands were on my wrists, holding them in place.

“Are you usually this tactile when drunk?” he asked, amused. I grabbed for his sleeve, silky and cool. Deep laughter reverberated through the walls. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sherlock sighed. He yanked my coat from my shoulders and pushed me onto the bed, pulling my shoes off. 

“Are you undressing me, Holmes?” I breathed, half-giggling.

“You’ll get mud in my sheets,” he stated. I huffed and closed my eyes, crossing my arms on my chest. Sherlock grabbed my shoulders and lifted me up, sporting all my weight as he pulled back the covers. He guided me down and laid me out, replacing the sheets. I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down. At that angle, I could see his eyes very clearly. They sparkled with so many different colours that I lost count. I blinked twice.

“You need to sleep, too,” I insisted. Sherlock shook his head.

“I’m on a case, John.”

“For me?”

He looked pained for a split-second, and then his warm body was next to mine. He pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, my eyes falling shut.

“Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with me this long i love you guys


	10. Chapter 10

_John…_

_…permanent damage…_

_…left wing…_

_...best for you…_

_…we’re sorry._

I sat at a glass table in a blinding white room. The walls and floors blended together, starting as one ended in a space of utter light. Even I felt light, floating in the air. My feet didn’t touch the ground, yet I knew I perched on a small section of cloud.

A cheerful, perky brunette with skin the colour of roasted cocoa beans drifted toward me. I could see her vpaah, soft, shimmering chestnuts. She smiled shyly and ‘sat’ beside me, her white gown flowing behind her. Her gentle fingers massaged my left shoulder, kisses of butterfly wings against my skin.

“I wish it wasn’t this way, John,” she said suddenly. “ _Josali nenadani_.”

I nodded, humming. She continued to work, splashes of gold staining her fingers. My wings peaked over my shoulder. For the first time in a very, very long time, I studied them. It would be an understatement to say they were mangled, blood clinging to the tawny down. My usually auric wings dripped sickly with dark flaxen goo, bone and muscle clearly visible under the patchwork of feathers. I shivered.

“ _Pem vasim sala polo_.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, the weight of her words crushing me. My heart fluttered in my chest. She smiled.

“This should help with the pain,” the woman in white said, her hands moving to the base of my wings. I nearly asked her what pain when it hit. It felt as if I was thrown at a concrete wall, then smashed to pieces with a mallet, and finally set aflame.

“Sorry, fingers slipped!” She rubbed the area again, smoothing her hands on my shoulder blades. “Now, this won’t hurt a bit, but it’ll be a little disorienting.”

“Wha-?” She turned me so that I sat on her lap. With the easier access to the expanse of my back, the tips of her nails ventured over my skin, forming shapes and letters that, despite the fact that I couldn’t see what she was doing, I felt it deep inside my chest.

“It won’t hurt again,” she continued. “Your vessel won’t feel the pain of your grace. It’ll give you time to heal.”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping,” she whispered as she scraped her nails in one final sweep. I closed my eyes, my head falling forward. I heard waves of water and smoke. Her voice barely cut through it all.

“ _Don’t break the seal_.”

Gasping, I woke up disoriented and with a fissure in my skull. The echoes of my nightmare sang in my head. Slowly, I sat up in the unfamiliar bed, studying the chaos around me. It took my brain a few seconds to process that I was still in Sherlock’s room. Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s raised voices drifted out from underneath the door, though I couldn’t really make out what they were saying. Dragging myself out of the bed, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I rolled my shoulders. They ached terribly despite the fact that the scabs, which once wept angrily, were merely angry, red scars.

Behind my eyelids, I saw black and red, like blood and ants and shadows creeping underneath my skin. The trembling of the air around me surged in a way that tampered my already hangover-weakened head. The Holmes' yelling didn't help a bit either. Words like whispering little gnats nipped at my ears. Flinching, I stood and stretched my muscles. Fatigue stiffened my bones as my limbs reached outward. I imagined the tips of my wings grazing the edges of the room and shuddering, invisible feathers dropping to the floor. Wind blew through them once, tossed them and bent them comfortably due to the sheer speed of my flights. I longed for them again, the image of flight drawing a sharp sense of nostalgia in me. _The feeling of breathing through my bones and my soul overcame me as it would a marathon runner’s gasping lungs, and yet, I wasn’t tired. I was full._

My reverie was broken by a loud _smack_. The front door slammed as the voices came to a hush. A loud ping soon followed. Sherlock stomped toward the door and, as my hand reached for the handle, yanked open the door.

"There's been another murder. Get dressed, John," he said softly, pushing me aside. Quietly, I snuck upstairs and switched my jumper and jeans for a different pair. Downstairs, I heard Sherlock mumble something about feathers. _Another experiment?_ I hoped that it wouldn’t end up with another body part or, God forbid, a chicken’s corpse. As I pulled on my jacket and made my way down to the sitting room, Sherlock tackled me and pulled me down by my wrist.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock complained.

“Hey!”

“Same M.O., apparent suicide, made-up crime scene, but there are _two_ bodies!”

Time seemed to flash as we moved from our flat to the crime scene, the ride and streets becoming background noise. Sherlock’s excitement was a constant hum in the back of my mind, like bees buzzing around the most delicious honey. He babbled an odd sort, but I couldn’t find it in me to listen. We followed Lestrade into the seemingly dull neighbourhood, and into the home of Cal and Adam Lapuz.

Our greeting was more than a little chilling. Adam, strung up on the back wall as a sacrificial lamb, bled from a number of abdominal wounds. A knife protruded from his chest. Around him, feathers decorated the walls. The room leaked blood. Iron stifled all other scents in the room, despite the fact that candles glowed on the table beneath him. I shuddered, the stabbing pain at the top of my head increasing. Hours ago the victim and I shared a room.

“John!” Sherlock called from above. Lestrade and I drudged up. His face paled before me. Fear hung from the ceiling. When I caught sight of the scene upstairs, I retched. Cal’s brains splattered over the room in a cascade of greys and maroons. His face, if you could call it that, appeared completely mangled beyond recognition. Feathers stuck to his fingers as if glued in place. Like his brother, he bore the same apparel from the bar fight the previous night. I swallowed and tried to drag my eyes from the mess and to Sherlock, who was entirely unaffected by the affair.

“How curious. The other victims died of an overdose,” he mumbled. “Perhaps the killer wanted to create a more elaborate scene…”

“Or this is an entirely _separate_ crime,” Lestrade suggested.

“No. Cal is left handed.”

Lestrade stared, waiting for the punchline.

“The gunshot obviously hit his right temple. The angle is entirely impossible for a left-handed man,” Sherlock explained, twisting his left arm around in demonstration. Lestrade smirked, and then frowned as his eyes drifted to the body. “Beyond that, he has multiple bite wounds on his neck, as did the other victims.”

“They fit, too,” I said, my voice oddly calm. “Cain and Abel.”

Lestrade bit his lip and looked over his shoulder down the stairs. “Do we count them as one or two sins?”

“Only Cain-”

“-Cal-”

“-committed suicide. His brother was killed only for dramatic effect,” Sherlock finished. He turned to me, eyes sparkling. “Wrath is the remaining sin, correct?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s it,” I replied. My mobile vibrated in my pocket. Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, not giving me a moment to check it (as if I wanted to).

“We need to hurry. There will be only one more victim. If he kills one last time, we will never find him,” Sherlock grumbled. _Buzz_. Lestrade’s head bobbed in agreement.

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Lestrade promised. “And don’t you go thinking you’ll be out there without any protection. I’ll send patrol cars to your flat. They’ll keep an eye on you wherever you go.”

Sherlock grimaced, “fine. We’ll be going now.” With that, he flourished his coat and galloped outside. I followed after him, though I wasn’t nearly as fast as he. He walked quickly, his hands in his pockets, with his back erect. His eyes focused firmly on the cement, darting around as his scanning hidden information. I sighed and pulled out my mobile.

Geoff wants 2 meet up 4 coffee. U in?

_Yeah, okay._

_OK. It’ll just b the 2 of u._

The next message detailed directions to a little café not far from here. **_Buzz. Buzz_.**

I gave him ur number.

As if on cue, a text from an unknown number popped up on my screen. I bit my lip.

**Hey its geoff.**

_Hey._

**Mike text you?**

_Yeah._

**Is now alright?**

_Yeah. Fair warning, we might need to fill out a statement for the police later, though. Couple of guys from the bar were murdered._

**Ok.**

Sherlock appeared at my side, his chin resting on my shoulder, apparently silently reading my texts. His frown etched into his face, he snatched my mobile and placed it in my pocket.

“It is not wise to gallivant with strangers at a time like this,” he remarked. I shrugged.

“He’s a friend. Mike and I had a few drinks with him,” I replied. “And I am not ‘gallivanting’.”

“Right.”

“It’s completely harmless.”

“Mmm.”

“Just a cup of coffee. Not a –”

“-murderer-”

“-date.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, his eyebrows coming together. His eyes focused on something behind me, completely lost in thought. “I see.”

“Don’t be like that. I’ll be gone one, two hours tops. Use that extra time to find the killer.”

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “I want to solve it with you.” _He just wants to show off. Every genius needs an audience._

_Am I just his audience?_

I sighed. “I’ll be quick. Lestrade’ll be grateful that we’re getting our statements out of the way anyway.”

“Why would you need to…?” He looked at me again. “They were there last night. The brothers were at the bar.”

I swallowed, a lump forming in the back of my throat. I didn’t want to lie, per se, but I knew how Sherlock would react. No doubt he’d deduce the truth anyway. “Ye-es,” I said slowly.

“ _John_ ,” he glowered.

“I’m going,” I said, stomping off in the other direction. Sherlock’s protests faded as I walked away. I passed a few blocks until the familiar café came into view, and then sent a text to Geoff.

_Here._

I heard the ping of another mobile as I entered the building and looked around. The hostess from Mike’s and my previous meeting welcomed me with a smile and led me to a table. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a plain, striped white fedora on top of a feathery crop of hair. Geoff’s bearded grin grabbed my eye. He nursed a cup of coffee in his hands.

“Hey,” I said, scooting to his booth. I sat across from him, my eyes longingly transfixed on the coffee.

“Hi,” Geoff grinned, reaching for the pot and pouring me a cup. “How’s the hangover?”

“Hell. Cheers.” I took the cup graciously, wincing when the sweet substance hit my tongue.

“I take it you don’t take your coffee with sugar, yeah?”

“Not usually, no. It’s fine,” I mumbled. My eyes watered, the pounding in my skull intensifying.

“You guys sure partied hard last night,” he noted. “Honestly, I thought you’d be outta commission for a while.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what about these statements? What’s going on?”

“There’s been, er, a double homicide. Remember those guys that caused the huge scene?”

“Yeah, Adam and Caleb, or something like that. What about them?”

I gave him a look.

“Shit, no way.”

“Yeah. I know the D.I. is going to want ours, so I thought we could get it out of the way together.”

“Good idea. I’ll call Mike and tell him.”

“Thanks, mate,” I mumbled, downing the rest of the sickening drink. My head swam.

“No problem. So how do you know about this?”

“My flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, works with the police.”

“The Sherlock? You’re kidding.”

“You know him?” I asked, swaying a bit. I felt the coffee crash in my veins.

“Yeah! He’s amazing! What’s it like living with him?”

“Terrible,” I joked, laughing. “He brings home body parts.”

“What, like, he chops people up?”

“No, no, no. He experiments,” I offered.

“Right,” Geoff shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Is he just as brilliant as he seems?”

“Yeah.”

“Really must be something. He seems above us all, you know?”

I nodded, my vision blurring at the edges.

“He got any weaknesses at all?”

“He’s bloody indestructible.”

“Anything at all?”

“Well, he’s full of himself, much too cocky for himself.”

“Pride?” Geoff looked perplexed. _Huh?_

“Yeah, why?” I struggled to keep my eyes open. 

“No reason.” My head lulled forward to the table. White noise filled my head, echoing loudly like a siren. My eyes closed, ants and shadows returning, and I struggled to breathe. At the back of my mind, I could make out a faint whisper.

“ _Nalolinaza, nalalima_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josali nenadani – Brave captain  
> Pem vasim sala polo – We ache for you  
> Nalolinaza, nalalima – Goodnight, soldier


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Translations at the end c:
> 
> This will probably be one of the last few chapters. Comments and kudos are lovely. Thank you for reading <3

I woke up with the taste of blood and chunks of adhesive on my lips. My mouth twitched, pulling the skin on my cheeks. Duct tape? God. The slimy, sticky goo mingled with the sweat dripping down my cheeks. It was impossible to open my mouth to scream, much less speak.

Cold metal singed my now bare back. I felt myself burning from the inside out, like the collapse of a star in on itself. The void filled my chest as an aching, open wound. The sensation of the metal chair washed over me like an icy, calm wind in a desert. I focused on that to stabilize my thoughts.

My eyes were uncovered, thankfully. I took in my surroundings. Apparently back at the Yard, I noted. However, I sat outside of a small cell I’ve only ever passed on my brief travels through the building. I could spot the shape of a curly haired man on the other side of the bars. _Sherlock._ His head hung low, resting in his hands, and I could spot my Browning on a table beside the cell bed. He seemed absorbed in his thoughts.

My hands jerked up and caught on more tape. Immediately, I began twisting my wrists, tearing up my skin in the process. I continued thrashing around, hoping it would free me. A pair of hands held me down. Pain radiated from the palms.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.”

I continued to struggle, much to my captor’s amusement. I heard laughter from above my head. A sudden sense of _wrong_ shivered down my spine. The hands slid down my shoulders and to…to…my wings? I fluttered, enflaming the searing burns on my body.

“Calm down, John,” he tried again, smoothing tail and flight feathers alike. Inky splashes washed over my eyes. Static filled the room, bouncing off the walls and blowing a few light bulbs. Sparks rained into his hair. “You should be grateful. I gave you these back.”

I blindly threw a look his way, praying for fire or lightning to strike him down. He laughed.

“After all, they kept them from you. I just couldn’t resist.”

A blade appeared on my cheek, cool and acidic. _He probably dipped it in holy oil_ , I thought as he cut a path down to my jaw. I shuddered.

“It was a relatively simple spell. A few words of Enochian, some blood, viola! Wings.”

Blood trickled down my cheek. Sherlock stirred, the sounds of movement causing my eyes to snap in that direction.

“Un-repressed some of your memories as a side effect. All part of the spell. Nothing personal.”

Ignoring him grew easier as seconds passed. I had my _vpaah_ back! Blinking away the dark smudges in my eyes, I completely focused on Sherlock, whose appearance was nothing short of dishevelled. His hair stuck out in irregular ringlets. Black smudges highlighted the bags under his eyes. Geoff smirked, his eyes drifting between me and my target.

“He was my next victim,” he ranted. The knife pressed deeper into my cheek, though I didn’t care enough to feel it.

“Mmph!”

“You got too close, John,” Geoff sneered. His teeth poked out from behind his false smile. “I just couldn’t let you interfere. Hey, now, don’t look at me like that.”

I glared, picturing fire and blood dripping down his skin, and cuts and burns in his flesh. I counted the ways I could do it. God, I wanted to do it. My eyes drifted to Sherlock and back. He’d pay. One of Geoff’s eyebrows rose.

“I thought you were supposed to be the good one here.” The sly grin on his face chilled my soul.

“Of course, I could use you instead. There’s enough wrath in you,” he breathed, sulphur spilling over my face. “What my sponsor would do if he found out I brought him an angel’s soul.”

I glared, but nodded. There was no need for him to kill Sherlock. I would do anything to ensure he lived and avoided a fate he didn’t deserve.

“Or I could give him both of you,” Geoff purred. I growled in response, my wings twitching furiously and smacking his arm.

“Oi! Watch that, or I’ll pluck every feather off you!”

Sherlock stirred again, his hand reaching for the table. Geoff slowly began to smile. My eyes darted frantically between the two as I thrashed to get free. My vision went black again when Geoff applied pressure to my wings. Needles and pins stung my head.

“I’ve been watching you for a while, John… it’s so disappointing,” Geoff laughed. “Honestly, I’m a bit underwhelmed. I thought catching one of God’s almighty creatures would be harder than this.”

I fumed silently, flapping my wings under his fingertips. Suddenly, he jolted back, a smudge of ash on his hands. _Good_.

“Jesus! Calm down, John. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to Sherlock, would you?” Sherlock, who currently cupped my gun in his hands, looked in our direction as if contemplating what _we_ wanted him to do. I shook my head. Sherlock glanced back to his hands, eyes squinted as if he was trying to pluck every detail from the object with a single look.

“Good, good,” Geoff murmured, dragging the blade lightly over my neck and down my chest. Slowly, he began to carve into my chest. I whimpered, another set of lights down the hall flashing. “Your soul will be lovely to hold.”

I growled in both pain and anger, drawing a sadistically gleeful grin from Geoff, and then quickly bit my tongue. I wouldn’t let him derive pleasure from my agony. My attitude repulsed him, the grin transforming into a sneer.

“Don’t stop on my behalf,” he insisted. He nearly whispered to himself, eyes glazing over with a thought I was sure I didn’t want to hear. “I’ve never heard an angel scream before.”

 _No, and you never will_ , I thought as he tore off the duct tape that covered my mouth. Defiantly, I locked my lips. Geoff snarled and sliced ribbons down my chest. He reached over me for something, a bottle of water, and poured it over my cuts. _Not water!_ My teeth dug into my lips as I fought back the urge to shout.

“ _Vahec polo!_ ” I hissed, another splash of the liquid washed the blood from my skin. Geoff’s snarlish smile crowded my vision. The painful twinkle in his eyes, almost manic, sparkled like drops of morning dew.

“Now, that wasn’t a scream,” he tsked, moving from me to the cell to open the door and slip in. “You wouldn’t want me to hurt him, would you?”

“ _Namali pini ranoli_.” I yanked and tugged at the tape around my wrists. Geoff casually drew a small heart on Sherlock’s neck. _Sherlock_ , I thought, my eyes stinging. Geoff carved at it to peel the skin off and make the heart an open, bleeding scab. “ _Ge_! _Volrila polo valosi pini_!”

“One of you is going to die. You chose,” Geoff said with a shrug. Scarlet trickled down Sherlock’s collarbone.

“ _Polo. Pi vezolam polo_ ,” I whispered, the corner of my lips twitching upward. I tugged again, and again, red smearing over the silver tape. Red and silver. Blood and metal. _You’re next_. I laughed.

“Not an option,” Geoff murmured, trickling a line of bubbling liquid down Sherlock’s face. Rust and iron pulled over my vision like a veil. I could smell it on him, on them. The bloodlust, the anger, sulphur, my nostrils flared at the scents. I flared my wings, surging forward.

“No, John,” Sherlock muttered. His grip on my gun released, the weapon falling into his lap. He blinked repeatedly, as if awakening. Geoff quickly responded, snagging the weapon and smacking it across the back of Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock’s head hit his chest. Geoff smiled.

Then, nothing.

My wrists pulsed, ached, and then…nothing.

Fingers numb and bloody, teeth jabbed into my knuckles.

I blinked, blood on my eyelashes.

So much blood, on the walls, on me, on Sherlock.

I spotted him under the blood.

“ _Vaninam vom jocal_.” My hands cradled his head, searching for a heartbeat. Light vibrated off of his skin. Nothing appeared to be broken. “ _Polvasi jocal_. _Polmenan vom janim._ ”

I brought him against my chest. Voices banged above us. He couldn’t hear me, but I kept mumbling comfort.

“ _Polvasi janam_.”

Iron smashed into iron.

“ _Pi vasorisi_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vahec polo - Fuck you  
> Namali pini ranoli - Leave him alone  
> Ge – No  
> Volrila polo valosi pini - Don't you touch him  
> Pi vezolam polo – I choose you  
> Pimenan vonan polo, polo nonadaso - I'll kill you, you bastard  
> Vaninam vom jocal - Please be okay  
> Polvasi jocal - You're okay  
> Polmenan vom janim - You'll be fine  
> Polvasi janam - You're safe  
> Pi vasorisi - I promise

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hello](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849570) by [consultingdetectivesherlockh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetectivesherlockh/pseuds/consultingdetectivesherlockh)




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